Ever in Your Favor
by miss.hawkins
Summary: Before Katniss, before Peeta, before Finnick, before Rue, there was Calliope and Cayden.  Best friends chosen to compete in the first annual Hunger Games.  To hunt.  To kill.  What do you do when the odds stack you against the person you love most?
1. Chapter I

**Chapter I**

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_Pat. Pat. Pat._

My sneakers slap against the wet pavement. Behind me, the door slams closed, cutting off the sound of my father crying. It's a hollow sound. One no child should ever have to hear. But I have become all too accustomed to it.

Rain cascades down. Within seconds I am soaked from head to toe. I kick up water with my strides, and pull the drawstring of my hood tighter around me. It muffles the sound of my footfalls.

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

Without thinking I travel the familiar route out of town, past the houses and shops with lit windows. Everywhere I look people are rising, staring out at the storm with anguished expressions, or huddling around their televisions, sobbing. Those that see me racing down the street shake their heads in pity. They know why I am running.

I push past the clinic. For once it is silent. The rhythmic hum of machines and tapping of keyboards are gone. Just another reminder of what is to come. What today shall bring. Gazing at the darkened building, I pump my legs faster, eager to leave this all behind me.

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

After thirty minutes, the black top gives way to a dirt path. It is muddy from the rain. Sliding my way through it, I glance up. In front of me looms a huge park. Winds whips through the trees and the lake at the center ripples angrily. Here is my solitude. My savior. My solace. I begin my rounds around the outer track. Alone.

And of course I am alone. Only a fool would be out in this weather. On this day. I am this fool. Despite the hurricane threatening to swallow me up, I run. I run as if the Capitol itself is chasing me. Which, in a way, it is. I can't get away.

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

Not to say I don't try. One lap quickly turns into two. Then three. Then five. Then eight. Before I know it I have lost count. Each step feels like a million. Each breath like it's my last. I love the feeling. The healthy fire in my calves. The warmth in my lungs. This is what I live for.

To put it simply, running is how I survive. Just when I think I am about to lose what little sanity I have left it gets me moving, hoping. When I run I feel strong. Capable. Not invincible per se, but like I have a chance at enduring. A chance. That's all I need.

I forget the Capitol. I forget the Reaping. I forget these so called 'Hunger Games'. I forget my father. Brother. Mother. Myself. I focus entirely on the beat my body has created. Feel it pulse inside of me.

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

My brother, Wes, always tells me it's the closest to a musical talent I will ever get. Ironic considering my name is Calliope. According my father I was named after the instrument because my mother loved the sound. Too bad she's dead. Murdered by the Capitol.

She couldn't run fast enough.

Exactly one year ago today, on the day when District 13 was destroyed, my mother was taken. She had relatives who lived there. Family who could pass on secrets. They thought she was hiding information about the rebels. And information comes at a price. I still vividly remember the night they knocked on our door. Even to this day I have nightmares about it.

It had been raining, like it is now. Our house, as equipped as it was to handle the wind, shuddered as gales hit the side. We were just sitting down to dinner when the knock came. At first we didn't hear it-the noise outside overpowered it. But then it came loud and clear. _Boom, boom, boom, boom._

My father rose first. Snatching the gun off the wall he told my mother, Wes and I to stay back. After the destruction of District 13 earlier that day he wasn't taking any chances. He went to the door and opened it. Opened up hell.

Peacekeepers, the Capitol's lapdogs, stormed in. One attacked my father, who shot the gun off. It hit a man in the shoulder and blood stained the porch. At the sound, half of the Peacekeepers tackled him down. He was knocked cold. Outside, thunder crashed.

The other half went for my mother. At that point I was screaming. I can't tell, even now, what came out of my mouth that night. Wes, three years older than me, immediately leapt from his seat and tried to intervene. Meanwhile, my mother was being dragged across the floor by her hair. The Peacekeepers easily knocked Wes out as well. He hadn't been near as strong as he is now.

That's when my instinct kicked in. I dashed after my mother and found myself against a wall of men in white. One grabbed me by the upper arm and threw me against the stairs. I hit the bottom three steps full-on and my back throbbed. Slightly dazed, I looked up just in time to see my mother get flung across the porch, followed by the Peacekeepers before the door swung shut.

I scrambled from my place on the stairs and wrenched open the door, desperate. But by the time I got there the Peacekeepers and my mother were gone. Rain had washed away the blood on the porch.

And that was the last time I ever saw her.

Since then, my father hasn't stopped crying. Every day, it's like an endless stream of sorrow that freely flows. For awhile he used to talk to me. Thinking it would make me feel better. After the sixth awkward conversation, he finally gave up. And we've been silent ever since. Talking crisply and only when needed. Never out of genuine care or love.

Wes was worse. At first he had done just as my father-waste away days on end just sitting at the table, reliving that horrible night. He shut me out completely. I reminded him of our mother. Then, about four months ago, he started opening up again and we talked. Now we're better. Not perfect, but better. Some wounds just can't be healed.

Tears burning my eyes, I look up into the sky, letting the rain wash them away. I haven't thought of my mother in months. The memory is too painful and I had shoved it into the deepest corner of my mind, blocking it out. And now…on the anniversary of her death…

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

Unknowingly, I start my ninth mile. My breathing is still even. I've done this my whole life. Ran and ran and ran. It doesn't faze me anymore. And although I have never tested it, I feel sure that if I wanted to I could run all the way to the next district without stopping.

I remember a time when moving between districts was allowed. My family used to visit District 13. All my cousins would suffocate me with hugs on arrival. Aunts and uncles would marvel at how big I had gotten. Grandparents would smother me in kisses. But that was many years ago. Before the Dark Days. Before the entire District was blasted off the face of the earth. Another day I keep locked in the back of my mind.

I woke to my parents sitting in front of the television, which immediately indicated something was wrong. My parents never watched it. We only have one because it is required. No, what my parents loved were books. An entire library that hasn't been touched since my mother was taken. But they weren't reading that morning. They were watching the screen, their eyes glued to the images that replayed over and over.

When my mother saw me approaching she broke down crying. I later learned why. Her entire side of the family had been blown to smithereens. No survivors.

School that day had been terrible. Dissecting a rat, something that has been part of my education since I first entered school, proved to be impossible. My hand shook the entire time. Like the television, I kept replaying the image of my mother crying. Again and again. A broken record.

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

Briefly I wonder how long I've been running. The rain has slowed. Sun peaks out shyly from behind a cloud and a rainbow emerges. I marvel at the colors. So pretty. So wrong on a day like this.

Today is the Reaping. I have no idea what it means. Four months ago the Capitol announced that the citizens of each district would be required to attend. That the ceremony (as they called it then) would be the precursor to the Hunger Games, something they refused to elaborate on. The extent of information we received went only so far as to say it would involve children being taken from their homes. And yes, it was punishment for District 13's rebellion. One we would all suffer.

With the words 'hunger' and 'reaping' and 'children' together, I know it will be bad.

Finally, I decide I have been running long enough. By my estimation, and the gentle flames in my legs, just under an hour has gone by. It is time to head home. Time to ready myself for this so called Reaping, which feels more like a death sentence than the cheerful, fun event the Capitol has tried to make it out to be. I turn on my heels and sprint in the direction of town.

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

This time when I go by people are out on the streets. Vendors push carts, shoppers move between buildings, families materialize from houses. However, apart from the Peacekeepers, who stomp down the streets in rigid formation, everyone is barely shuffling. There is no chatter. No laughter. Just tightly knit groups going about their business, avoiding each other's eyes. Hardly a normal day in District 2. A Peacekeeper sneers at me as I move past.

The one who threw me against the stairs the previous year.

I hold my ground and glare back. A year ago he frightened me. But no longer. Squaring my shoulders, I speed past him. By the time I arrive back home, the rain is barely a drizzle. As I had predicted, my father is still slumped before the television, crying. I know I should go to him. Comfort him. Instead I take the stairs two at a time.

Wes's door is open about midway to the top so I stop in for a moment. He's hunched over at his desk, drawing. A habit he formed a couple of months ago. During a rare conversation with my father, I once asked why Wes drew. He'd never done it before. And suddenly there were papers everywhere. The floors, the fridge, even the bathroom mirror. Dad answered that it was part of his therapy. His own way of dealing with our mother's death. Like my father, who cries non-stop. He then proceeded to stare at me point blank and say, "What is your therapy, Cali?"

I had no answer for him.

It was a week later, after I had thought about it, that I realized running is my therapy. As a child it had been fun. Now it is my way of releasing my emotions.

"Who is that?" I ask, propping myself on the edge of Wes's desk. I see eyes with thick lashes for a split second and then the paper is gone, snatched away by my older brother.

Wes holds the paper to his chest. "No one," he says defensively. His cheeks are red. He notices my clothes. "Don't get my desk wet!"

I roll my eyes and ignore him. "Oh, come on, Wes," I whine, wondering why he is blushing. "You know I won't make fun of it."

His brown eyes, identical to mine, narrow, scrutinizing me. Vary rarely does he permit anyone to look at his work, regardless of the fact that his doodles litter the floor of our house. Normally with a few words I can get him to give in. This time is no exception.

"All right," he concedes, handing me the paper.

All it takes is one look for me to recognize the face. "Jade Craywin?" Disbelief colors my tone. Dimples. Round, open eyes. Perfect skin. It is unmistakably her. What I can't believe is that my brother is drawing her.

"You said you wouldn't make fun!" Wes says, reaching up to take back the drawing.

"I'm not!" I say, swerving out of his grasp. I stare down at the ink, my eyes drinking in the lines. So precise. "It's just…you've never even talked to her. Why are you drawing her?"

Wes avoids my eyes and I understand. The corners of my lips tug into a smile.

"You like her."

"What? No I do not!" His blush deepens.

I laugh. "Yes, you do. It's written all over your face!" It's unreal. My brother, quite, gentle Wes who, although layered in muscle, has never harmed a fly has a crush on the most popular girl in school. And he graduated two years ago. "What, do you stalk her or something?"

"No!" Wes rubs his temples. I have given him a headache. "I just…saw her at the clinic yesterday. I stayed late to clean some tubes and she was there, studying. When she saw me she said hi and we talked."

Post graduation, all those who earn their certificate saying they passed school go to work in the clinic. District 2 is the medical district. It creates, tests and ships out all the drugs to the remaining districts. Although I have yet to graduate myself, I know more about medicine than I have ever cared to. My brother works at the clinic as a chemist, producing new pills. Someday I plan to join him.

"All right, all right," I say, throwing my hands up in defeat. Then I look at the drawing again. It really is beautiful. Patience is not a particular virtue of mine, so I am in awe of his ability to sit down and work so diligently on something. "It's very good," I tell him.

He looks down, embarrassed. "Thanks. How was your run?"

I think about it. How was my run? I finally settle on, "Interesting." Interesting is good. Interesting could mean anything. "Have you been downstairs yet?"

At once I know I have said the wrong thing. Wes gets that faraway look in his eyes, like he's been transported a million miles away from me. He carefully places the drawing on his desk.

"Never mind," I say, knowing full-well it will take hours for him to start speaking again. I get up to leave. Just as I am sliding out the door, I hear him call my name. I duck my head back in.

A sly smile has found its way onto his face. "Take a shower," he advises me. "Can't have you smelling like that at the 'ceremony'."

Yanking my jacket over my head I toss it at him. It hits him square in the face and as I am skipping up the remaining stairs I hear a loud, "Aghhh!" behind me. Serves him right.

At the top of the stairs, I enter my room. It's tiny by District 2 standards, though it could easily permanently house another person. My bed, the large canopy my mother chose for me for my thirteenth birthday, is a mess. Blankets are strewn in all directions. My journal and pen are buried deep within the pile of clothes at the foot. A dresser is adjacent to the bed, one of the drawers ajar. My own desk is as cluttered as Wes's, but with notebooks filled with stories rather than drawings. It looks like a war zone, but I don't mind.

I shut the door behind me and strip my sopping pants, shirt, shoes and socks off. Parading around in my underclothes, I slip into my bathroom and crank on the shower, choosing only one of the million buttons that line the wall. While the water is warming I grab a towel and disrobe the rest of the way. Once nude, I step in and sigh in relief.

The hot liquid feels good against my frigid bones. I let it pour over me; let it work its magic on my tense muscles. I realize as I am washing that Wes was right. I _did_ need a shower.

A half hour later I turn the nozzle and punch another button. Vents open on the wall and blast me dry. I do the same with my hair. Then I dress myself in the prettiest dress I own. The only dress I own. It is stark white, with a heart neckline and long sleeves. It falls to my knees, the ruffles from the underskirt giving it a nice layered look. I strap on some heels with a look of disgust. It would be just my luck to not only be chosen to compete in the Games, but to fall flat on my face when the Capitol announces my name.

Wes shouts for me just as I am pinning up a section of my hair. Getting it off my face. Allowing myself to breathe. I hurriedly call back to him, finish my task and then head downstairs. Both he and my father are waiting at the front door, attired in their best clothes. Wordlessly we set out into the street.

We join the masses headed for the main square. Even by District 2 standards, it is strange to see all the residents dressed up. Gone are the sterilized pasty lab coats. Gone are the sensible glasses and flat shoes. Instead there are pearls, shawls and fur coats. Silk, backless dresses and stiff black suits. Ringlets of hair in all shades of colors instead of tight buns. The only ones who look the same are the Peacekeepers. They stand out against all the finery, their guns keeping us moving.

The main square has been transformed. A stage has been erected in the center, with two sets of stairs on either side. Atop the wood, bearing down on the confused crowds, is a balding man with a grimace that I think is his attempt at a smile. He leers at the women and glares at the children. I know instantly he is of the Capitol's design. All around are cameras. On rooftops, on streetlights, being carried by men. Whatever is about to happen will be for the world to see.

As soon as we enter the crammed space Peacekeepers separate me from Wes and my father. The butt of a gun hits my arm, nudging me into what looks to be a holding pen for children. Wes shoots me an alarmed look, but then disappears from my sight as more Peacekeepers maneuver him into the adult section. Children ranging from twelve to eighteen surround me, the younger ones begging for their parents, the older ones staring up at the stage with dark eyes. I catch sight of a familiar face among the hoards of petrified young adolescents and streak through the clumps.

"You clean up well," Cayden says. He wears a pressed white shirt and black slacks that must be his father's because they drag against the ground. His green eyes are laughing at me.

"Wish I could say the same for you," I shoot back, self-consciously smoothing out my skirt.

Cayden is my best friend. Ever since that day in preschool when Russ Smithers pushed me down into a mud puddle, staining my brand new lab coat, and Cayden came to my rescue, giving Russ a bloody nose in return. Of course he paid for his violent behavior later by serving a day in the stocks (children aren't spared such a punishment in District 2) but it didn't matter. What was done was done. And thus, our friendship was born.

"Ouch," Cayden says, pretending to look hurt. Dramatically he runs his hand through his coal-black hair, the same shade as my own. "Careful, Cal, you really hurt my ego there."

"Too bad it's so inflated, or you might have actually learned something."

"And the pain just keeps on coming." This time, Cayden seizes my hands and holds them tight in his own. "Dearest Cali, I beg of you to stop. Your words are like bullets to my heart."

So here's the thing about Cayden: when he's worried or uncomfortable, he makes jokes. It's his own special way of alleviating anxiety from the situation. So I know when he rambles on about his broken spirit and dwindling confidence that it's really just a mask to hide how uncertain he is about the future. How frightened he is at what is to come.

Personally, I just turn cynical. But in this instance I decide to humor him. For our sakes, we could use a good laugh.

"You have a heart?" I mock surprise.

We go on like this for several minutes as the square continues to fill, only quieting when the man on the stage suddenly plucks a megaphone from nowhere and calls for our attention. The square falls silent, and I am aware of how loudly I am breathing.

"Greetings, people of District 2. I am Effin Marr-"

Cayden and I glance at each other at the same instant, and both have to look away before we can start cracking up. All ready I am thinking up various ways that the name 'Effin' can be used in a joke.

"-and I am here as a representative of the Capitol. As you all well know, today is the mark of a new tradition in Panem: the annual Hunger Games. I'm sure you must all be very curious as to what this momentous event is." Without waiting for confirmation, he plucks a scroll from his baggy pants, which look like clown clothes, and holds an eye-glass to it. He clears his throat and begins to read: "As a reminder to the people of Panem that the Capitol is supreme and all rebellion is futile, one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each district will be chosen at random to compete in the Hunger Games. During these games, the tributes, as they are so named, will be placed in an arena. Using nothing but their skills, they will vie with the other contestants to be named victor in a fight to the death."

Death? Did he just say death? The effect is instantaneous. The previous silence that seemed to engulf the stifling, confined air vanishes, replaced by a thunderous roar of voices. How dare the Capitol enact such a thing. How dare they send children. How dare- But the individual voices become lost as parents, grandparents and even those without children storm the stage. Storm the pen holding Cayden, myself and the other underage civilians of District 2. It's chaos. Hands claw out for their loved ones. A girl next to me gives a shriek as her mother pulls her away from the rest of us. Cayden and I just stare at one another. Thinking the exact same thing.

_Bang. Bang._

Everything goes still. Those attempting to reach their offspring freeze. Eyes wide. A man who attacked a Peacekeeper falls to the ground. Dead. Two bullets through his brain.

"Now, now," Effin Marr is saying, holding his hands out, palms down, trying to suppress the outbreak. "Let's behave like sophisticated people, please."

Peacekeepers drive the adults to their places. I can see Wes out of the corner of my eye being rammed backward by a tall man. Within seconds everyone is back in their assigned stations, only the wails of children piercing the shocked quiet that has overtaken the square. Every single camera is on the crowd.

In all the pandemonium, someone has placed a table and two bowls on the stage. Effin doesn't even glance at the objects as he continues to address us. "Now, people, be reasonable. Do not blame the Capitol. Blame District 13 for even considering trying to overthrow everything we hold dear." Voices cry out against this, but Effin ignores them. "And now, on to the Reaping."

So this is the Reaping-the choosing of the boy and girl. I rise up on my tip-toes, trying to see the inside of the bowl, but the stage is too tall. Not that it matters. Mere seconds later, Effin is explaining, "In one bowl are the names of every girl in the district. In the other, the boys' names. I shall take one from each and those two chosen will be the very first tributes of District 2."

Without further ado, he plunges his hand into the first bowl. I hear a district-full of inhales. As though trying to prolong the agony, he swivels his hand around inside. Several long seconds pass. Finally, his fingers emerge from the blue container, a tiny slip of paper crushed between them. All eyes are on him as he unfolds it. That same sadistic grimace from before resurfaces on his face. Clearing his throat, he has no trouble being heard over the dead hush as he reads, "The female tribute is Calliope Westover."

And the entire world disappears. It's like I'm suspended on a cloud. A cloud that blocks the noise and uproar that has exploded around me. I can't see. I can't think. All I can do is replay Effin's words over and over again in my mind. _Calliope Westover. Calliope Westover._

I am immobile. My face a wordless expression of confusion. My body limp.

Something grabs my arm, but I don't know what. I can't process what has occurred. I can't understand what is now happening. All I know is that my name has been called. And I am going to my death.

My legs give out beneath me and I plummet to the ground. At the last instant, something catches me and propels me forward. Gasping exhales are flooding out of my mouth. Colorful dots are breaking along my vision. I am so lost in the moment, I don't register being dragged up onto the stage. Don't care that I look like an idiot. I am only aware of the rush of blood through my veins and the sudden headache that is rocking me to and fro.

Effin enters my line of vision. His lips are moving, but I don't recognize the words. Staring at him with blank eyes, I watch as he turns to the whole of District 2 and says something that causes the square to explode yet again. People fight against Peacekeepers, children flee the pen holding them in, and Cayden appears in a sea of faces. His jaw is on the ground.

Next I find Wes. Unlike my father, who has broken down crying, he is battering against two Peacekeepers. Trying to reach me. To help me.

But no one can help me.

It's only when he is slammed in the gut and flattens to the gravel that I regain my sense of self. Sound comes roaring back at me. Light hits my face. I choke on my own breath and hack and sputter. My legs shake. Hands fidget. I am dying right there on the stage.

I am going into the Hunger Games. I am going to fight. To kill. To die. The reality of my predicament hits me full on and I sway on my two-inch-high heels. But this time there is no one to catch me. So I stagger around, trying to remain upright. Like a mad woman who has had one glass too many.

Effin grasps my hands in his. His sausage-like fingers feel wrong after being touched this way by Cayden. Grate roughly against my skin. I recoil, ripping myself out of his hold. Try to keep from being sick. My actions don't throw him. He is too busy congratulating me. Wishing me luck. I follow his gaze back into the crowd and notice all the cameras are pointed at me. Taping my uncertainty. Documenting my loss of control. Immediately, I shut my mouth and stand up straight. I try to appear more put together than I feel.

Inside I am crumbling.

It takes several minutes for the snarls of District 2 to fade away, and even when they do the animosity in the air is tense enough that all that is needed to set it off again is a small spark. To maintain the calm, Peacekeepers orient their guns at the pen of children, ensuring the adults will cooperate.

Effin is still speaking, and I have to strain to comprehend what he is saying. "-and may the odds be ever in your favor." He grins at me like this simple phrase will solve all my problems. I numbly nod my head, knowing I am still the subject of the Capitol's focus.

Pleased by my reaction, Effin announces the male tribute will now be chosen. Like with the girls' bowl, he takes his sweet time in rustling through the slips of names inside. I wait on baited breath. Whoever is chosen will be my…competition. I realize that whichever name comes forth from the pile will be the name of a person I will have to kill. Or will kill me. My mouth runs dry. Visions of my classmates, of my neighbors, of my friends fill my head and my legs threaten to fail beneath me again.

Effin selects a paper. Clears his throat. Ogles the crowd. He has the power. The ability to choose. The capability to send another person to their death. To the Hunger Games. He opens his mouth. Says the name. And my heart stops. A scream dies in my throat.

Cayden Alley.

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**Subject:** The Hunger Games

**Rating:** PG-13

**Couples:** OC/OC

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the storyline and my OCs.

**Author's Notes:** This has been bouncing around in my head for a few weeks now. This style of writing is new to me, as I usually write in third-person. However, it's a good chance to stretch my Mockingjay wings and experiment. If anything is out of cannon for the Games themselves, it is because these are the first Games. Like with anything else, they will have changed over time until they morphed into the Games Katniss and Peeta experience. In this fic, the Capitol hasn't quite gotten down the exact formula for how they want to run the competition, so some things might be different. As always, **reviews are love.**


	2. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

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**I saw my first dying man at the age of five. In District 2, there is no shield, no protection against the human body. Within the first few innocent years, children here are exposed to countless horrors. Starving, bony frames. Gaping, pus-filled wounds. Internal and external bloody carcasses. Being the medical district, it is considered perfectly normal to gaze upon these gruesome sights.

I remember being sick when I caught a good look at him. Three bullets were lodged in his chest, opening it to the world. Everywhere there was blood. On the examiner's table. On the floor. On my mother's lab coat. Standing ten feet away didn't distance me enough from the carnage and I puked right then and there, all over the shiny floor, much to the head practitioner's annoyance.

After being removed from the room, my mother came out a short while later and sat down next to me on a cold metal bench. She didn't say anything. Just held me close and let me cry and blubber and wipe the goopy mess of my nose onto her clothes. Gently she stroked my hair. Cleaned me up with a wet cloth. Spoke quiet words.

I can still picture that man's body now. The red liquid endlessly pouring from every puncture he had. To this day I still feel my stomach twist at the memory, despite the fact that I have seen far worse in my time at the clinic. Something about being exposed to the gore at such a young age has never left me. Continues to haunt me to this day.

This is how I feel when Cayden's name is read. My stomach does that terrible coiling sensation and my mouth opens, as if I am going to heave everything I have inside of me all over the stage. My hands, previously covered in sweat, run dry and I am fidgeting worse than ever.

I can't understand it. Can't believe it. There must have been thousands of names in there; thousands of children who could have been chosen. But no, it is Cayden. Cayden, the boy who stood up for me all those years ago. Cayden, the one who listens to me without interruption when I vent after a long day. Cayden, who skipped attending the school ball last year to help me with my chemistry homework.

This can't be happening.

Like when my own name was called, bedlam ensues. Shouting bursts forth from the crowd, so deafening I have to fight to keep from putting my hands over my ears, remembering I am on camera. _Boom. Boom-boom. Boom._ My heart is racing.

Yet through the never-ending wall of people, I find his face again. Notice the surprise he wears that mirrors my own. We lock gazes, green eyes on brown, alone in a world of noise and colors. Just the two of us. Something unsaid passes from him to me.

He tells me he's sorry. Sorry that we are both going. Apologizing that he must fight against me-kill me in order to survive. Hurt me, Wes, my father by striking me down.

I don't know what to say in response. Shoulders rise and I shrug, incapable of doing more. He knows as well as I do. He knows that I will match his fury, his attempts to win. I will not give in. And I am sorry as well.

Sorry that I ever loved him.

Cayden's feet move independently of his body. By his stocky swagger, I can tell his movements are mechanical, a sort of reflex rather than a need to get to the stage. He uses the opposite set of stairs that I was hauled up, those around him grasping after his back, trying to find something, anything to drag him back into the safety of District 2. Only there is no safety and he mounts the stage.

"Ah, here he is, Ladies and Gentlemen," Effin announces, striding forward and capturing Cayden's hand as he did mine. Cayden has the good sense to not push Effin away like I did, and even manages a slight shake. "Cayden Alley, congratulations, son."

Cayden recovers much faster than I do and nods his head. "Thank you," he replies in a dazed voice, avoiding my eyes. After the exchange, he takes his place next to me and you can feel the heat that rises between us. An invisible barrier manifests.

"District 2, please give a round of applause to your tributes!"

But there is no applause, no shouts of encouragement. Just wild booing, hissing and more attempts to reach us, the two marked for death. I rearrange my features into an expression of calm. I cross my arms, afraid that if I don't, I will latch on to Cayden and never let go. Hug him to me, beg Effin to spare him and put some child I do not care for or know in his place. Anything would be easier than what they are asking me to do.

The mayor of District 2 now joins Effin and us. For the entire Reaping he has stood off to the side, watching but not saying anything. I know he had previous knowledge of what was going to happen today. I can tell by the grim, accepting look on his face. He's probably had months to get used to the idea of children being whisked away to a bloodbath.

As I think this, anger boils up inside of me.

The mayor, Crichton, is not a very popular man. In fact, the only reason he is still in power is because the Capitol keeps him there. Not the people. With his black, greased hair, round spectacles, and pressed pants, he looks entirely out of place when he visits the clinic. Especially when said visits are to impose new laws on the manufacturing of goods, as set by the Capitol. Now, Crichton unravels a paper and begins to read from it. The Treaty of Treason, he calls it. In five minutes, he has recounted the bombing of District 13 and every horrible thing the Capitol has done since to 'make the districts better.' Then he does the impossible: asks me to shake hands with Cayden.

Stiffly, we turn to one another. Cayden's face is impassable, blank, stoic. No trace of emotion, no glimmer of a heart beating beneath the façade he has erected, so similar to my own. Only his eyes speak to me. Alive with worry. And once more we are apologizing. Begging for the other to forgive us for what is to come. We know the Capitol is ruthless and if they say we must kill each other, they will find a way, a path for us to do so. It is hopeless to go against their wishes. So, we will kill.

I take his hand. It is entirely too warm and friendly, and I struggle to keep my grasp formal. I want nothing more than to hold him to me and sob. But I can't. We are tributes now. Enemies, not friends.

The moment goes on forever. I lose track of time. Ten seconds? Five minutes? Several hours? It doesn't matter. Knowing how long I have stood here in his grasp will not change anything.

Then, it's over. Cayden releases my hand the split second the anthem starts and focuses on the crowd, pulling his eyes from mine. I feel the need to swipe out after them, to chase them down and hold them forever. But reason wins out and I copy his action.

The anthem can barely be heard over the racket. The Peacekeepers shoot a round of bullets into the sky, bang, bang, bang, bang, only barely stemming the noise before it comes back, twice as earsplitting. I see both my family and Cayden's, and know that for as close as they have been in the past, brought together by our friendship, they will never again speak to each other. The only one smiling in the whole square is Effin. Of course.

When the anthem ends, six Peacekeepers lead us through the crowd. Two stand in front, two stand in back and the last two takes the sides so that Cayden and I are squished together as we walk through the square to the Justice Building. I am in a tight spot. I don't want to touch Cayden because I know that as soon as I do what little self-restraint I have left will break down and I won't be able to stop clinging to him. But I can't move away from him because a Peacekeeper is on my right side, and no way in all of Panem am I getting close to him. In the end I just shuffle along, my arms crossed, creating the tiniest form I can.

We make it through in one piece; the Peacekeeper's guns do a good job of keeping the adults at bay. Once inside the building, Cayden and I are separated, sent into different rooms. I have only been in the Justice Building once, many, many years ago. My father's brother was getting married and they had to get the documents signed. The room I am dumped in is nothing like the court room, though. There it was small and well-furnished. Cozy, even. Here it is like a cave with a single couch and end table against one wall. The doors slams shut behind me, leaving me alone in the huge space. At once I collapse onto the sapphire couch. Thought overtakes everything else.

What am I doing here? Is this where the Capitol sends the tributes to reminisce about their lives before they are sent into the arena? Or is this where the Hunger Games start? Are other tributes all ready here? A momentary surge of panic electrifies me before I come to my senses. They would never have the games here. No, the Capitol would have them someplace where there are many viewers. Where my death can be publicized to the masses.

This must be a holding place. A precursor to the Games. Somewhere for me to wallow in grief and doubt and wait for the future to take hold of me. Of course, I am sure I am being watched. Thinking this, I grab one of the cushions and hold it to my face, blocking it from the cameras I'm sure are following my every move. With this tiny shield between me and my captors, I finally break down.

How could this have happened? I always knew, upon learning about the Reaping, that it would be painful. That people would probably die. I just never thought that _this_ would be my sentence. Forced to enter a sport and kill, all for the Capitol's amusement. It's sick. Twisted.

I am crying so obnoxiously loud, that I don't hear the door open. Don't realize that someone has entered the room until I feel a weight next to me and the sofa sags down. Hands pull me up from around my abdomen. Remove the cushion. My head falls against something warm. And then I hear a heartbeat.

Wes doesn't say anything. Just lets me cry and cry and cry until I'm sure I have nothing left. For the second time in less than an hour I am reminded of my mother and how she did the exact same thing, caressing my hair. This brings on a whole new wave of tears.

After a lifetime, I stop. My cheeks are raw and puffy. I feel, in a word, empty. Wes kisses my temple. Says, "We're going to fight this." But I know better. His words are only that: words. Nothing can bring down the Capitol. District 13 tried and look where they are now. Obliterated.

"I can't do this," I whimper, wishing there were some tissues in the room. "I can't."

Wes shakes his head before I even finish speaking. "You won't have to. Like I said, the districts will fight this. If today's ceremony truly happened in every district, you can bet they all rebelled the exact same way. With such a united front there's no way the Capitol can ignore it. Your job is to stay alive until they call the Hunger Games off. You don't have to kill. Just stay alive."

Just stay alive. It seems like such a simple, but impossible, concept. I've been fighting to stay alive all seventeen years of my life. It's been hard, but I've made it. But this… This isn't just me getting my school work done and making sure I catch the train to the other side of town. This is me in combat with 23 other contestants in a fight to the death. How am I supposed to survive?

I voice this. "How?"

Wes shakes his head harder. "I don't know. Keep your head down, I suppose. Stay out of the limelight. Don't speak unless spoken to, and even then watch what you say. That's all you can do."

"I'm scared," I say. It is surprising I can speak at all, what with how frightened I am. Like a child.

"I know." And then he crushes me to him, and neither of us let go.

"Where's dad?" I eventually ask. It has not escaped my notice that he did not come.

Wes sighs. "He couldn't come. I tried to get him to follow me when the Peacekeepers told us we could say goodbye before you left. But he wouldn't. He said he can't handle the emotions. You look just like mom, and I think he's reliving that…that night."

It makes sense. With my black hair and brown eyes, I am an almost exact replica of my mother when my father met her at the clinic all those years ago. Of course I remind him of her. Still, I would be lying if I said it didn't hurt that he couldn't overcome his grief to come to me this one time in my moment of need. Especially since there is a good chance I won't be coming back.

We stay like that until the Peacekeeper comes and summons Wes. Just curled up against each other. When the moment arrives to say goodbye, my tears return and the Peacekeeper has to physically remove me from his arms. I kick and swing my arms, but it does no good. Before he leaves, Wes glances back at me and mouths three simple words.

_I love you_.

And then he's gone and I am alone again.

The next person to come in is the mayor. He catches me by such surprise, I only have enough time to wipe my eyes and sniffle back the remainder of my tears before he is standing before me. Shifting uncomfortably. In a district the size of two, he hardly knows my name. I wonder why he is here.

"Remember while you're out there," he says as a way of greeting, "that you are playing for District 2. You're representing us. Make us proud."

Making him proud is the last thing on my mind and I bite my tongue to keep from screaming every foul thing running through my head. For him to even come and suggest such a thing… My life obviously means nothing to him. A statistic of the population he rules over.

"Tell me about yourself," he instructs me, not noticing my red cheeks.

"What do you want to know?" I ask. Hiss.

"What are you good at? What will keep you alive?"

I think on this. What will keep me alive? I'm not particularly gifted in any way. I've never wielded a bow and arrow. Never shouldered an ax. I've cut open bodies for dissection and surgeries, but that is hardly something that will aid me in the Games.

"I can run. Fast."

"How fast?" he asks.

"This morning I ran nine miles in 48 minutes." To me this sounds like nothing, as it is something I have been working up to for months. But to him… His eyebrows fly up into his receding hairline.

"Did you really?"

I nod.

His hand winds beneath his chin in a thinker pose. I have impressed him. And honestly, I could care less. "Well, you have a shot, then. Your speed and agility might make up for your overall failure in other, more violent talents."

"Excuse me for not being homicidal." The words are out of my mouth before I can rein them in. Dropping my gaze, I attempt to come up with some way to apologize for my outburst, but find that I am not sorry. So I stay silent.

"If you want to live, I suggest you learn how to be." No remorse colors his tone.

"Why? So I can make you look good in front of your bosses?" My tongue is running away with me now. His uncaring attitude toward me has vexed me, aggravated me. The cynical part of my personality is rearing its ugly head.

Crichton shrugs. It is useless to deny my accusation. We both know why he is here, and it's not to tell me how much he will miss me when I am gone.

"Do you have any other skills? Fire making? Tree climbing?"

Since the only trees are in the park and our furnace at home is running twenty-four/seven, I shake my head. No. I have no other skills.

"And school? Where are you in school?"

"Year 11."

He nods, pleased. "Good, good. Before the games, brush up on what you've been taught. Study the body, its weaknesses and strengths. Review pressure points. Make sure you can bandage and treat any injury. That could save you."

"Mayor, were it not for these games I would be graduating in one year. Believe me, there is nothing more I need to learn or review. My life revolves around the clinic." I do not like that he is helping me. But I cannot deny that his logic is sound. The other districts know nothing of medicine beyond what the occasional district practitioner might. In fact, the other districts are at a disadvantage. Mining, fishing, lumber. They will not know how to heal themselves. All it would take is one deep wound to take them out of the Games.

"Well review it anyway!" he snaps, put off by my insubordination.

After this outburst, he has nothing more to say. I have nothing more to scream. So we wait in silence for the Peacekeeper to come. When he does, I slam the door shut after Crichton walks over the landing, eager to get him out of my sight.

I don't anticipate my last visitor. The door opens. I glance up from where I am sprawled out across the couch. And my jaw unhinges, crashing to the floor. Sitting up. Trying to make sense of what is before me.

My dad walks unsteadily to my side. Does not sit down. He jams his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and clears his throat. He opens his mouth. Then closes it.

"Dad," I choke out, sputtering over the word. I can hardly believe it. After seeing Wes I knew my dad's presence was a lost cause. He simply would not come. Yet, here he is. Looking awkward as he struggles for something to say.

"Cali," he addresses me, and it's been so long since he's said my name I almost start crying once more. Noticing the wetness of my eyes, he pats my hand situated in my lap. The touch sets off my waterworks and I stumble through our conversation.

"I thought you weren't coming," I say. It's not a charge. Just a statement.

"I didn't think I was either," he admits. His face is like mine, red from sobbing. He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. I recall how he had pure black hair just a year ago. How time has changed him.

"Are you going to wish me luck?" I ask, trying to keep it light. Unlike with the mayor, this is one discussion I want to have. By playing nice, I might get him to open up. For the first time in forever. After all, this could easily be the last time I see him.

He shakes his head. Before I can ask why, he explains, "You don't need it."

I must look confused because he goes on.

"You're such a…a bright, resourceful girl, Calliope."

It is the closest thing to a compliment I have received from him since mom's death. The closest to an "I love you." The sheer idea of my father expressing an emotion besides sorrow to me leaves me at a loss for words. I gawk at him. So utterly happy and baffled at the same time.

"I'm betting on you."

"Dad," I say. My voice cracks. Forgetting the wall between us, I jump to my feet and hug him. If this is to be my last moment with him, I want it to be a good one. No anger. No resentment. I want to let him know how much I still love him, in spite of how frustrated I am at his behavior.

It takes a few seconds for him to return the hug. But when he does, it makes me cling to him all the harder. I pour everything I have into the embrace. All my love and apologies and misery and anxiety. He accepts me without objection, which is the best thing he could have left me with. Leaning back, I whisper, "Thank you."

He kisses my forehead, his glasses falling down the sloped curve of his nose. We look ridiculous with our matching pudgy faces but I don't care. I got my father back, if only for a few minutes.

The Peacekeeper comes and breaks us apart. I wipe my eyes and wave to him as he walks out the door, my heart shattering when he doesn't wave back. He is that certain I will survive. That certain I will win. His confidence in me changes my mindset. I stop crying. For him and for Wes, I will try.

An hour passes before I am collected. Cayden and I are loaded into a car. We don't say anything, don't look at each other. We won't until we are alone. Until we can say what needs to be said without the overbearing Peacekeepers eavesdropping on us. As we drive through District 2, I stare out the window, cementing each building, every person, the tiniest pieces of my home to memory. I may need the comfort in the coming hours. While I am gazing out the window, the Peacekeeper in the passenger seat gives us the lowdown on the next stage of the Games. We are being taken to the train station. A train is waiting to take us to the Capitol, where we will receive instructions on how the Games work, be given training, and ultimately enter the arena. On the train, we will meet our mentor, who will guide us on our journey. The whole thing sounds magical in his words.

Not.

The train station is packed with reporters. We pull up and they rush Cayden's side, snapping pictures and shouting questions. When they realize I am in the opposite seat they streak around the front and do the same to my window. The two Peacekeepers in the front get out. Push the reporters back. Make a path for Cayden and me to walk through. I practically run to the first car.

Before I can enter, however, one of the Peacekeepers stops me. Tells me that I need to take a few pictures in front of the train. I do as he says, fill out a rigid pose, and the cameras snap, snap, snap. Then the same Peacekeeper dismisses the journalists and turns the handle on the car.

The door opens to reveal a large living room. Really. A living room in the train. There are couches, a loveseat, a flat screen television mounted on the wall and everywhere balloons that read _Congratulations!_. As if it is some treat to get to ride in such splendor. To be a tribute. I gag at the sight. Cayden, who has caught up with me, laughs slightly. But the Peacekeepers spoil the moment by pushing us inside and slamming the car door shut.

"Your mentor will be with you shortly."

They leave and it is just us. A huge lurch suddenly thrusts us forward and I have to grab the wall to keep from falling. Cayden grips my arm, steadying me. A whistle sounds. Without speaking we scramble toward a window on the far wall. In front of us the city flies by. We pick up speed quickly and the towering skyscrapers become pinpricks in the distance. Soon, District 2 vanishes completely.

I withhold a sigh. Look to Cayden, whose eyes are trained on the horizon. Not caring that we are enemies, I grasp for one last moment of friendship. Of love. I take his hand. He tightens his hold, squeezing mine. We stare into each other's eyes.

And mourn the loss of everything we hold dear.

* * *

**A/N: **How is it that I received over 20 story alerts for the first chapter but not a single review? It only take five seconds to leave a few words on what you like/dislike about this story. Please?


	3. Chapter III

**Chapter III  
**

* * *

Our special moment is ruined when a voice says, "Ahem."

As if an electrical current passes between us, Cayden and I leap away from each other, reeling in our hands. I feel myself blush even though I have no reason to. We weren't doing anything wrong. Certainly after all that has happened we are allowed a moment together. Heat fills my body from head to toe.

The voice belongs to Effin. He stares at us with a knowing look. The corner of his lips smirking up. Next to him is a woman with purple skin. Hundreds of tiny diamonds are embedded in her, so when she moves she glitters, sending out reflections that highlight the walls. With her white hair and the golden tattoos that cover the right side of her face in an elaborate design, she is truly a sight to behold.

"We were just…talking," Cayden lies, and I notice that he is flushed as well. His arms are crossed, shutting me out.

Effin laughs. "Oh, yes, I could see that." Rather than prolong our discomfort however, as I thought he would, he looks to the woman and says, "These are your tributes. Calliope Westover and Cayden Alley."

Mouth glinting from even more gems that have replaced her teeth, she begins to circle us, her eyebrows raised. She pokes us. Pinches us. Feels our arms and legs. Inspects our hands, eyes, and ankles. The wild look that consumes her face as she touches us reminds me of a predator stalking its prey. Finally, she states, "Well, they're not completely hopeless."

Effin nods.

"You, girl," she snaps at me. I lift my head and match her gaze. "Tell me, have you ever lifted a weight?"

"My name is Cali, in case you didn't hear," I snap right back. Turned off by her bluntness. She doesn't give any indication she heard me, so I go on, "No, I've never lifted a weight."

"Have you ever thrown a knife?"

I shake my head.

She tsks. Up close I see that her eyes are lined by thick gold bands to match her tattoos. She is like a creature from another world and I find myself wanting to leave the room just to be away from her arrogant attitude. "Count your blessings, then, that you have strong legs and, I'm guessing, a rich pair of lungs. That stamina might keep you alive."

Next, she turns to Cayden. She softens. Lightens the tone of her voice. Smiles, even. "You, on the other hand. You have muscle. In both your arms and legs. What is your training?"

Cayden answers, "I lift weights and wrestle. I also throw javelins for my school."

An appraising look. "I see," the woman nods with glee. "We'll want to make sure you keep that muscle. It will aid you in the arena, both in overpowering the other tributes and in making shelters and climbing, if it is needed. Good, good." She mumbles to herself.

"Who are you, anyway?" I ask out of the blue. Not because I care, but because I don't want to refer to her as 'The Grape.'

In a flourish she stretches out her arms. Long sleeves that fall to the floor swish and I realize her dress is partly see-through. How provocative. She doesn't mind that Cayden and I are staring. "I am Zeta, your mentor."

Well. We're doomed. This is all I can think as I process what she has said. There is no way a woman who spends her time inking her entire body, driving jewels into her skin and gums, tattooing her cheek and, I see through her clothes, her chest and abdomen, is going to keep Cayden and me alive during the Games. She'd do better at a Capitol beauty salon, which I am sure is where she spends the majority of her time.

I look to see how Cayden is receiving this news. Surely he is as taken aback as I am. But he is not. Instead he is staring at the floor, his face, if possible, even rosier. Of course. His family is one of the more modest in District 2. Zeta's openness with her body must have caught him by surprise.

A different sort of heat bubbles from my core.

"And what does the mentor do? You can't be with us in the arena, right?" I try to draw Zeta's attention away from Cayden, allowing him to take a deep breath and fixate on her face.

"Silly girl. Of course not! As if I should be forced into the Games. I've done nothing wrong."

_Funny, neither have I_, I think, but don't vocalize.

"No, the mentor is responsible for preparing the tributes for when they enter the arena. I am the one who will devise your strategies, give you information on the other competitors, get you sponsors and deliver gifts to you. In a way, I am your lifeline. Should you need medicine or food while contending, I will have the final say in what you get and when."

Befriend this woman. That is what my gut says. If what she is telling us is true, she could be the difference between life and death. _No!_ screams the other half of my conscious. I want nothing to do with this woman. Do not want her whispering in my ear. Telling me what to do. Do not want her feeding me, healing me, helping me. I do not like her.

"What do you mean by sponsors?" Cayden asks. He's worked up the nerve to raise his eyes and is staring at her face so intently, I wonder if he might burn a hole through her. I positively won't complain if he does.

"In the games," Zeta says, "you will be watched at all times. Cameras are everywhere in the arena. They will be following you, taping your journey. All of Panem will be privy to what goes on through their televisions. As like any other sporting event, people are allowed to bet on who they think the winner will be. More than that, they can support their favorites through donations. Any money given in your name will go through me and I will settle on how best to use it to your advantage."

Wes will surely raise money. I know it as soon as the words leave her ruby-stained lips. He'll do anything to keep me alive. Meaning he'll take up two, possibly three shifts at the clinic to achieve the necessary funds.

"And we can't communicate with you in any way during the Games?"

"Bingo, we have a winner. You'll just have to trust me to do the right thing."

Trust is the last thing I feel like giving this woman. Ten minutes into meeting her and I just know we will not get along. I will be on my own in the arena. Cayden on the other hand…perhaps she'll take his chivalry to heart and help him.

"Zeta is your mentor," Effin butts in now, clarifying. "I am your Capitol liaison. She keeps track of you while I keep track of your schedule. If you have any more questions, find either her or me and we will do our best."

I don't trust him either.

"Now, let's sit down and go over a few more things. Zeta has requested to hear your backgrounds. The better she knows you, the more she'll be able to guide you."

Cayden and I end up on the love seat, with Zeta and Effin across from us. We make an effort to stay as far away from each other as we can after being caught red-handed. I tuck one leg behind the other and try to sit up straight. Cayden sprawls across the cushions in typical guy fashion.

"First off," Zeta says, pointing an accusing finger, "how old are both of you?"

"17," we answer in unison.

"How did you meet prior to being chosen?"

I let Cayden tell her the story. Hearing his words sends a surge of pain through my chest. Recounting the past is not a smart move right before we are expected to kill each other. Effin and Zeta listen without comment. Only when Cayden has fallen silent does Effin speak.

"This will complicate things." He bites one of his fingernails. I choke down a gag.

"No kidding," I agree. He realizes the predicament we are in, being friends. This would all be so much simpler if we didn't know each other. But we do and that will hurt us in the long run.

"Not fully," Zeta counters. "If viewers know you are being pitted in opposition of each other against your will, they might take pity on you. Getting sponsors is a lot easier if the audience feels for and connects with you. We should play this up in front of the cameras."

"Please tell me you are joking." My eyes harden. Portraying us as the friends we are, showcasing that relationship, will only make it that much harder when the time comes for us to face off.

"I never joke when it comes to my job. Believe me, this will help you survive. You're going to need my help in the arena, especially you," and her eyes flash to me. "You can't run forever. And since you've never wielded a knife, I doubt you know how to hunt or skin animals. You're going to need food. Money will get you that. But only if you do as I say, and I say you need to be friends in front of Panem."

"And what," I demand, "happens when the Games start and suddenly we are no longer buddy-buddy? What happens then? Will people forgive us for suddenly throwing away our friendship? I don't think so. They'll think we lied to them." I am aware the Cayden is not speaking. Rotating to him, I ask for his confirmation; that what I am saying is correct.

"I agree," Cayden says. "The last thing we need is to be caught in a lie."

"Then don't." Zeta stands up and begins to pace. "Be friends even in the Games. You don't have to lie."

"But we don't-"

"Silly girl, I am not finished. I…understand why you do not wish to be put together. So here is what I propose: stay the way you are all the way into the arena. Begin the Games working together. You'll survive much longer if you do. Then, somehow become separated halfway through. Make it seem like you have no choice. Like you love one another so much that you can't bear the thought of hurting the other. Decide in front of the camera that it would be best to go in opposite directions. Most likely one of the other tributes will kill one of you before you'll be expected to kill each other. In addition, it'll pull at the viewers' heartstrings."

I bite my lip. Love? "Are you suggesting we act as a couple?" I blurt out.

"You can love each other without being romantically involved," Zeta says impatiently. "Just act as you would back home. Be natural and everything else will fall into place." She thinks for a moment, and then claps her hands together. "Yes, I've decided this shall be your strategy."

"And if we disagree?"

"Then don't expect me to cry at your funeral." Her voice is cold. When neither of us reacts to this, she goes on with her interview. "Now, we must come up with an image for you both. The sooner we decide, the easier it will be for your stylists."

"Stylists?" Cayden's eyes are round in revulsion.

"You honestly expect us to present you in front of Panem as you are?" Zeta's eyes flash down Cayden's body, her nose wrinkling at his too-long slacks. At my fidgeting with the ends of my skirt. "No, no. We want to attract donors, not scare them off. Just you wait. Selma and Ryker will fix you both up. No one will be able to resist you."

I sense many, many dresses in my future. Ugh.

"Tell me about your families."

Cayden goes first. Both his mother and father work at the clinic. He is an only child. Not much to tell there. Speaking of my mother's death and my father's depression is much harder than I anticipate and I mostly mumble through my story. Wes, on the other hand, makes me brighten, so I save him for last.

"And what do you do in your spare time?"

I run. Cayden wrestles. We attend class. Work at the clinic every Tuesday and Thursday. Apparently this is not enough. Zeta proclaims us boring and probes deeper. I write. Cayden reads. I watch sunsets. Cayden mocks me. I mock back. We back and forth almost constantly. I attend art shows with Wes. Cayden helps his father out on the weekends doing oddball jobs. I avoid cleaning. Cayden avoids homework. We mock some more. Simple stuff. Talking becomes easier with each passing second, and by the end of our spiels we have drawn close together, a habit of being around each other for so many years.

Zeta grins furiously, sitting back down. "Good, good." I notice she has a habit of repeating her words when she is trying to stress a point. "That's what I'm talking about. That natural rhythm you just had. Poke fun at each other any chance you get. It's perfect for the cameras."

Next she asks us to describe each other. According to her, it's the only to get to know us. If she just asked us directly about ourselves, we'd leave important information out without realizing it.

"Cayden doesn't know when to shut up," I blurt out.

"Hey!"

"You get him talking and he just goes on and on."

"I do not! That was one time, in front of Mayor Crichton! I was nervous, ok? He had that crazy look in his eye like when he's been drinking. I thought-"

"See?" I point out, delighted he has confirmed my words. "He doesn't know when to keep quiet. He's fiercely loyal. Very silly. Not a morning person. He hates when people pop their knuckles. His favorite color is blue. Loves cherries. Can play the guitar. Oh," I add, on a roll, "and he's ticklish."

"I hate you," Cayden grins when I'm done, rolling his eyes.

"Charming," Zeta labels us before addressing Cayden. "And Calliope?" It doesn't escape my notice that she refuses to call me by my nickname.

"She's allergic to peanuts. Has thighs of steel. Is obsessed with drinking water. Runs. Like, all the time. Obviously she's beautiful. She has a good heart. Kind of naïve, though. Unlike me, she is a morning person, and for that I will never forgive her. She has absolutely no musical talent. She enjoys breaking my heart. Hates dresses. And she likes dancing around her room in her underwear, singing into her hairbrush."

"Cayden!" I yell, throwing one of the cushions at him. It hits him square in the face, and when it slides away he comes up laughing. "That's private!" Years ago, he caught me in one of my rare moments of song. Time has washed away the embarrassment that captivated that moment, but I still don't want anyone to know.

"So is my being ticklish! I don't want to be tickled to death in the arena!"

"All right, all right," Zeta interrupts us. Next to her, Effin has pulled out some sort of communication device and is speaking into in rapid fire. He stands and leaves the room. "Good, good. This will help. Now, I am going to go do some brainstorming to come up with how you will both be portrayed. Dinner's at seven and the train is yours to explore. Don't try leaving. I'll get someone to show you to your rooms."

Thankful the meeting is over, I don't hesitate to follow the servant that materializes. She takes us through several cars until we come to two open doors, side by side. Gesturing in, she nods at me, indicating the first one is mine. I step inside. A huge bed-triple the size of my own back home-takes up the majority of the space. There is a private bathroom, desk, television and living room unit. More like a house than a bedroom. A quick glance in Cayden's room reveals the same items. When we are satisfied, the servant girl bids us goodbye with a wave.

"She's an Avox," Cayden observes once she's gone and we've both collapsed on his bed. The pillow top feels good against my tense shoulders. Zeta's interrogation was more stressful than I realized.

"A what?"

"An Avox. My father told me about them a little while ago. Following the destruction of District 13, the Capitol decided to round up all the rebels and rebel-aiders they could find and punish them. Notice how she didn't speak? I'll bet she's had her tongue cut out. Dad said the Capitol is fond of that particular sentence."

My stomach convulses. Cutting tongues out. There is no limit to the Capitol's atrocities.

"So," Cayden suddenly sits up. Leaving behind all talk of the Avox. "What do you think of Zeta?"

I stick a finger in my mouth.

"Yeah, me, too. Still, she seems to know what she's talking about."

"Of course she does. She's from the Capitol. She breathes this kind of stuff."

He laughs and then turns serious. "Cali, do you want to do as she says? Be friends and then part in the arena? Or do you want to do that now?" Like me, he's gone over the cons of the situation. And like me, I can tell he doesn't feel comfortable going through her ruse. What if things change and we can't separate? What then?

"I don't know," I say. Part of me hates her idea. It'll just make it that much more painful when we break apart or we have to kill each other. But I cannot deny that the prospect of keeping Cayden close to me in the Games is tempting. Together we could excel. With him by my side, I wouldn't be lonely, wouldn't lose sleep, wouldn't have to worry about what's behind my back every second. Stability is tantalizing, to say the least. "Do you?"

"Yes."

I find his eyes, one eyebrow rising up.

"It's just…" He flounders for words, something I've never witnessed before. "I'd feel better if we were together, even for a short time. I…I'd like to know you're alive."

So he feels like me. Wants the comfort of being around me. Doesn't want to face the uncertainty of if I have made it past the first day. Naturally we'll have to deal with that eventually. But in the beginning, one less worry would help.

"I'm just afraid that something will go wrong. I can't kill you, Cayden," I say, rolling over on my side completely so that I can see all of him. "I can't."

"And I can't kill you." He holds his arms out and I go into them willingly, hugging him. The gravity of the situation is hitting us. Gone is the playful teasing from before. Now it's just us and our feelings.

I cannot kill my best friend.

"Cali," he calls me to look up at him. "I think we should stick together for now. Who knows what we'll face in the Capitol. It'll be easier if we do it together. If the time comes when we change our mind and decide to not go into the Games as a team, we'll deal with it then."

I don't necessarily agree, but he looks so broken and vulnerable asking this one simple thing of me that I can't help but nod. Ok. Ok. He relaxes. Holds me closer. I can hear his heart beating in his chest. Wild, sputtering, untamed.

The talk of him dying, of myself dying, is no fun. So I change the subject, lightening the mood. "I can't believe you told her about me dancing."

He guffaws at the memory, shaking me in the cage of his arms. "That was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. You looked quite cute. I now regret laughing when I saw you because if I hadn't you wouldn't have known I was there and kept dancing."

I pinch him.

He quiets after many minutes. "I guess I did deserve that bloody nose you gave me, though."

"Please. You got off easy. I should have massacred you right there. You know peeping is against the law," I say.

"I wasn't peeping!" he defends himself. "I came up to ask you if you wanted to come have dinner with my family. It's not my fault you had your music up so loud you didn't hear me knock. Nor is it my fault that you decided to not get dressed that day."

We argue and fight over whose fault it is for a long time. The banter is so nice, so normal in our relationship that I start to relax. This is home. Here, with Cayden. No Capitol, no pretenses. Just fun. Just friendship. I thank each star that comes out when night falls that I have him in my life. Even if I'd rather he wasn't here with me for other reasons.

At 6:45, the same girl from before breaks our joking up. I climb out of Cayden's arms and follow the Avox to the dining car. Effin and Zeta are all ready inside, waiting for us. Two male servants hold out our chairs as we sit down. Immediately, dishes appear all over the lacy white tablecloth. Food of every color and texture. Things even District 2 does not have. And we're one of the wealthier districts.

"Wow," I can't help but say as a plate artistically topped with some sort of chicken and gravy ensemble is set before me. The hand and its owner putting it down are out of my sight before I can turn to say thank you. Briefly I internally question if all the servants are Avoxs.

"Try not to gorge yourselves," Effin cautions us. "These meals are from the Capitol, where the food is very rich. You'll get sick."

Zeta, who lives in the Capitol, ignores him and dives into her dinner with more vigor than I expected of her. She's so skinny and bony, I had wondered if she eats at all. Now I am getting my answer. Not only does she eat…she consumes.

I try to go slow, heeding Effin's warning. Getting sick is not on the whole appealing. Resisting the urge to stuff my face, however, is difficult. Within three bites I learn that the Capitol's food is blissful. Never before have I tasted such delicious morsels. There is an orange turkey with steamed broccoli. Butternut pancakes topped with wild, fresh strawberries drenched in sugar. A pork roast with a side of boiled potatoes. It's all so amazing; I find it hard to stop myself from licking the plates. Luckily, the courses move quickly, so I can sample everything without filling up on just one. Beside me, Cayden abandons his self-control and devours a soup and biscuit with gusto. By the end of the meal, his face is looking rather green.

"It's your own fault," I tell him when he complains he has a stomachache. I earn a glare in return.

Directly following the meal, we return to the car where we first met Zeta and settle down to watch the replay of the Reapings. Zeta acts pleased when neither Cayden nor I make any attempt to be away from each other, but rather curl up like we used to do during our many movie nights back home. I rest my head on his shoulder and the showings begin.

Few affect me. A boy from District 3 who has to detach himself from his hysterical girlfriend. A boy from four, who is laden in muscle. A twelve year-old girl from five. The announcer, who is commenting on each turn of events, almost starts weeping as a pair of siblings is chosen from eight. I wonder if the Capitol has fixed that drawing. A mentally disabled girl from eleven, who jumps the man reading the names, sinking her teeth into his arm. Of course, Cayden and I are also on the screen. Me, nearly fainting when my name is called. Cayden, his jaw tumbling down. Yet, for as weak as we both look, we are hardly the only ones. Nearly all the tributes lose their willpower, either screaming, passing out, or puking on the spot. Sometimes all three. Not exactly good television. After each district has their tributes, the screen changes, so I can't tell if they reacted the same way as two by attacking the stage.

"I hope you were paying attention," Zeta tells us as the next program comes on, all ready reviewing the Games' progress so far. There isn't much to tell, seeing as how the Reapings were just played, but the commentators find a few interesting subjects. How the girl in one was dressed. How I yanked my hand free of Effin. How the boy from seven marched up onto the stage without faltering.

"They don't seem that different from us," Cayden points out. "What's there to remember?"

"Do not be deceived by appearances," Zeta admonishes him. "You don't know what those tributes could be hiding. Some are proficient in skills you've yet to test for yourself. Throw them in the arena and they will morph from quivering teenagers to bloodthirsty savages, just you wait."

With those rousing, encouraging words, Zeta promptly sends us to bed. Saying we should get some rest because tomorrow in the Capitol will be the longest day of our lives to date. She forewarns us that our stylists will be brutal, and the easiest way to keep from prolonging the torture is to simply do as they say. And then she's gone down the hall, leaving only Cayden and me to say goodnight.

"What do you think of the other tributes?" he asks me, leaning against my door.

"I think we're lucky to have grown up where we did, because they are skin and bones." It's true-simply looking at the others has told me that they weigh much less than I, and not because I'm muscular. Especially in the lower districts, all the tributes seem to have gaunt faces and hollow eyes, as if they haven't eaten in weeks. Months, even. Makes me wonder how they fared with the Capitol food. "What do you think?"

"I think we need to be wary of district 4."

"Awww, is baby Cayden afraid of the big, strong tribute?" If he is, I can't blame him. His eyes peering through the television display was intimidating enough. I can't imagine what he's like in real life.

"Only his smile," Cayden grins, and we both laugh at the boy's glare. "I wonder if we made an impression…"

"I wasn't the only tribute to fall over. And at least someone caught me, unlike the girl from nine." She had spilled to the dirt, no one stepping out to help her up.

"I'm sure I made an impression, what with my devilishly good looks," Cayden brags, and he flips his hair expertly. I can only stare.

"Please tell me you haven't been practicing that in front of a mirror."

"Every day, love," he winks at me. "Why? Did it work? Have you suddenly realized you love me senseless? Are you going to fall to your knees and profess your undying devotion to me?"

"Do you want me to?"

Cayden smirks. "I never say no to women."

"But they sure say no to you," I say, chuckling at the annoyed expression he wears. "Fine, I shall profess my undying devotion. Come here," and I drag him to me with a curled pointer finger. His smile returns and he leans in. I stand up on my tiptoes, like I'm going to kiss his cheek. Closer. Closer.

At the last second I blow in his ear and he yells, jumping back.

"Goodnight, my handsome prince," I say in a mocking tone. He has leaped away from my door and I step in, leaving only a small crack between it and the frame to see him through.

"Goodnight, princess," he says. "And remember, revenge is a dish best served cold. Dream about that."

With a final farewell, I close the door and flop onto my bed. Beneath me, the gentle humming of the train has become normal, so I have to strain to feel it. Undressing is too much of a hassle as exhaustion overtakes me, so I crawl under the covers still dressed and yank them up under my chin. So warm. Now that I can pick out the train's movements, I let it rock me to sleep. Back and forth. Back and forth.

For as tired as I feel, though, I cannot fall asleep. My mind is awake with all that has happened. Has it really only been a few hours since I left home? Only a few hours since I talked to Wes? Since I set out to the park, the rain my only companion? I'm sure a lifetime has passed. This is far too surreal to have happened in just a day. Far too overwhelming. I toss and turn and think about Cayden next door. Suspect that he is having the same problem as me.

When at last I fall asleep, my dream is not of Cayden's revenge. But of the Games. The girl from district 11 is hunting me. Her dark eyes stalk me, saying, _I will kill you._ She crashes into me as I run away. That's what scares me. I can't run fast enough to evade her. Slamming me against the hard earth, she does as she did with the announcer. Her teeth latch onto me. Her head rolls around. Something tears. Rip, rip, rip. I feel a burst. A painted red smile curves across my throat. My blood spills into the soil. Drip, drip, drip. I have just enough time to find a star in the night sky before I fall into blackness completely.

I wake the next morning screaming.

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**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter :)


	4. Chapter IV

**Chapter IV**

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The doors aboard the train do not lock. As Zeta said, I am free to roam about the cars as I please, provided I don't try to escape. In a way, this is a blessing. Being trapped in would make me feel like an animal. A criminal. Which I am not. The one downside to the doors remaining open, however, is that anyone can come flying in at any time. This is precisely what happens five seconds after my voice explodes from within me.

"Cali!" a voice says, bursting inside my room without warning. In two long strides its owner is on my bed. Shaking me roughly.

I kick and punch and swing and claw to escape the girl. Although I am dead in my dream and awake now, I can still feel her weight on me. Feel the tip of her dagger carving into my flesh. See her demented smile and cruel eyes laughing at me. My eyelids refuse to open, keeping me locked in my nightmare.

I continue screaming.

"Cali! Cali, sweetie, wake up!" Hands latch onto my arms, pinning them over my head. Something rests on my legs, holding them still.

And my eyes pop open. Greeting me is not the waxy auburn hair of the girl from eleven, but the messy black hair of Cayden. He's pressed solidly against me, rendering my body immobile. His hold isn't painful. Just enough to keep me at bay. The second I realize it's him, I start sobbing. Thankful it is him and not Effin or Zeta.

Cayden freezes at my tears. I doubt he expected such a welcome from me. But I can't help it, and he recovers, pulling me to his chest where I quickly soil his nightshirt. Tenderly he strokes the back of my head. Coos my name. Tells me everything will be all right.

Several gasping wails later I pull myself together. The terror still lingers but is out of focus, like a dull ache in the back of my mind. I do not refuse Cayden's reassurances. No, I accept them eagerly, clutching tightly to him.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks me when he feels I am stable enough to answer.

Shakily I describe my nightmare. Unfortunately, mere words do not do justice to the emotions still ripping through me. Cayden rubs my back; his touch does more than even Wes could do. I finally settle. My shoulders pop, releasing the remainder of my apprehension. I am safe once again.

"Thanks," I say, rubbing my eyes and sniffling once.

Cayden doesn't look convinced when I tell him I'm ready to head to the dining car. His eyes are hesitant. Wary. He's never seen me like this before, and it's put him off balance. Only when my stomach gurgles out of the blue does he give in. We part to get dressed-well, I never got undressed the night before, so I fling off my wrinkled dress and put on more practical clothes found in the dresser; a pair of black knee-length pants and a grey T-shirt. My hair is still pinned up and I marvel that I slept at all what with all the fasteners sticking out. I unclip each one, brush through my hair once, then slide it up in a hair tie. Outside I meet Cayden and together we walk to the dining car.

Only Effin is inside. He glances up from his paper and takes a sip of coffee. "Nice to see that you are both alive," he comments dryly as we sit ourselves across from him. "I was beginning to worry."

"Where's Zeta?" Cayden asks, grabbing a roll from the basket to his right. He hands it to me before taking one for himself. Dinner yesterday felt like the pinnacle of eating but breakfast this morning seems sure to be even better. There are pancakes, waffles, French toast. Sausages, ham, bacon. Eggs. Rolls. Coffee, milk and hot chocolate. Steaming porridge. My mouth waters just looking at it.

"Zeta isn't one for schedules," Effin shrugs. "There's a reason she's the mentor and I'm the liaison. She'll probably appear sometime around lunch, watch and see."

Lunch, however, does not come to pass before our flighty advisor emerges. Seconds after these words leave Effin's lips, the doors to the dining car slide open and Zeta waltzes in. Her luminous hair is done up in pigtails on the sides of her head and she's wearing another dress, this one thankfully not translucent. She considers all of our surprised expressions, then suddenly strikes out at Cayden and I, slapping the rolls from our hands.

"No, no," she says. "None of that." Taking the chair next to Effin, she explains, "No more fatty, useless foods. From now on only proteins and vegetables. Steamed. You'll be going into the arena in a few days where you'll be living off nothing. We need to get you both healthy and strong before then so you have a chance at surviving." She snaps her fingers and a servant bustles to her. Whispering in his ear, she gestures to the table. At once the serving sizes halve and any plates holding breads, pastries or anything remotely caloric is swept away.

Even our rolls are retrieved from the carpet.

"Here," Zeta says. Seizing both our plates, she piles them high with ham and eggs. Coffee is replaced with water. "Now eat."

Cayden needs no further instructions. His fork morphs into a shovel as he jams more and more food into his overly-stuffed mouth. I cough, and it suspiciously sounds something like, "Pig." He stops, the end of his fork sticking out between his lips. "What?" he asks, and he sounds so genuinely perplexed, I start laughing.

"Better hurry," Effin advises me, glancing down at his pocket watch. "Training begins in a half hour."

"What training?" I say.

"Before the Games begin, you will be allotted three days in the Capitol training facility. There, you'll be given free range to explore many stations that are all geared to teach you necessary skills for surviving in the arena. The first two days are for you to try things out and master what you think will help you. On the third day, you'll be called in before the Gamemakers to show them your best ability. Each tribute will be rated, and the scores will be put out in front of Panem, though your actual talents will not be revealed. Effin and I have decided that this is simply not enough time to prepare you. So we will be beginning our own training. From now until the Games, you will be expected to act and train like champions."

"Is that legal?" Cayden stops eating long enough to ask.

Zeta shakes her head, chuckling. "My philosophy is begging for forgiveness, not asking for permission. They've not put out a rule stating we can't, so I take that to mean we can."

"Eat," Effin commands me, noticing I still haven't taken a bite. I start eating.

"What kind of training?" Cayden says. "Like weight lifting and stuff?"

"Somewhat, yes," says Zeta. "You'll be weight lifting. But more than that. I'm going to teach you how to throw knives, shoot arrows, wield spears and axes. I'll teach you how to hunt and cook meals and start fires. You'll need to learn to identify plants and climb trees. As you can no doubt understand there's much to learn and not very much time to learn it."

"While Zeta is teaching you survival skills, I'll be teaching you etiquette. The customs of the Capitol are considerably different than in your district. Believe me, the last thing you want to do is insult the president or Head Gamemaker. When we get to the Capitol, I'll be working with your stylists to get you ready for your official appearance in front of Panem."

"Am I going to have to wear heels?" I blurt out. The soft tennis shoes I have on now suddenly feel ten times better.

"Of course," Effin nods. Surprised at the look of horror that crosses my features. "A young lady such as yourself much be at her best at all times. You must look the part. That means heels."

I groan and Cayden pats my shoulder sympathetically.

Effin spends the next ten minutes going over out training schedule. We should arrive in the Capitol about mid-day. Until then, Zeta wants us to do some workouts. After the train pulls in, we will be escorted to the Training Center-our home until the Games begin. From then until we actually enter the arena, our lives morph into a mixture of training, interviews, parties and strategy meetings with our mentor.

"All right, all right," Zeta claps her hands together when Effin is done speaking. My plate-only half-finished-is whisked out from in front of me. I chew what is in my mouth, feel it slide down my throat and into my stomach, and sigh. Gathering us up, Zeta shoves us into the hall. An Avox leads us to the training car.

We do not have long to inspect the huge room-it is mostly bare, save for a few weights on the ground, a yoga mat, and an entire wall loaded with every type of weapon imaginable-before she puts us to work. Jumping jacks. Crunches. Push-ups. Lunges. Just when I think we are done she springs another on us.

Proof of how in shape Cayden is, he barely breaks a sweat in the first hour. His breathing is even, his limbs tough and stable. I have a bit more trouble. All my power is in my legs. Running has blessed me with agility, stamina, and a strong heart and lungs. What I don't have is any muscle in my arms. The push-ups nearly make me keel over in defeat.

Trying to push me through the pain, Zeta winds up right next to me, shouting loudly. Cursing me for being weak. Yelling her disappointment with my spirit. Her words do not make me want to try. Hardly. No, all I want is to yell back. To sag against the floor and let my poor body rest. Or, better yet, to take my frustration out on her.

After two hours, Zeta calls for a break. Cayden passes me a water bottle, offering me a small smile. It has not escaped his notice how angry I am. "Don't let her get to you," he tells me.

"Easy for you to say," I retort. "You're not the one she's badgering." It's true-Zeta refuses to leave my side. Clearly she is pleased with Cayden's prowess and less than eager with my progress.

Back to the grind we go after only ten minutes. Pull-ups. Bicycle pedals in the air while on my back. Wall squats. Fifteen minutes I have to hold a position called 'Core' where I lock my hands together in fists and balance on my forearms and tip-toes against the floor. For the first time in my life I am gasping for air. My whole body shaking. The only exercise I excel at is Lines, where I have to race Cayden to three painted lines on the floor, each farther and farther away.

By the time four hours have passed I am reduced to nothing more than a pile of sweat. Every inch of me is on fire, every tiny crevice aching. Zeta congratulates us for our efforts, but I am stalking out of the room and away from the training car before she's done. Cayden sprints after me, muttering a quick apology over his shoulder.

"I hate her," I say as we walk to our quarters. I am hot and sweaty and stinky and in a terrible mood. But apparently this is not enough for Cayden to be repulsed by me. Grabbing me around the middle, he gives me a half hug into his side, which is as laden with sweat as mine is.

"Me, too," he says cheerfully. "But she's just trying to keep us alive." Seeing my face, he drops this argument. "Nevermind. At least we're finally free. I think I lost about twenty pounds from the sweat alone."

"I can't wait to take a shower," I say, sniffing my shirt. Oh, yes. Not at all attractive. Luckily, Cayden's seen me in far worse conditions.

"Oh, a shower!" His eyebrows arch up in a smug way. "Mind if I join you, princess?" For added effect he winks. Somehow thinking this makes him look sexy.

"No way," I refuse him. "You'd hog all the hot water."

"For you," he purrs, kissing my forehead, "I'd be willing to share."

Giving him one last squeeze, I bid him goodbye at my door and happily descend into a world of rhythmic, blissful water and sweet smelling soap. Time means nothing as I scrub myself from head to toe. Soon, forty minutes have gone by and I still have no intention of leaving the relaxing jets pelting against my sore body.

A whistle is blowing when I finally emerge. Clicking buttons I dry myself in a matter of seconds. A bright blue dress greets me as I walk naked from the bathroom to my bedroom. Eyeing it, I hold it up and inspect it. Taped to the front is a note from Effin. I am to wear this into the Capitol. Heels are on the vanity.

"Ugh."

I am pinning my hair up when the knock comes. I open the door to Cayden, who takes a look at me and smirks. "You dressed up for me. How sweet."

"Only for you," I promise him, closing the door behind me. I survey his clothes-a tux with a bow tie. Are we going to a dance or something? "What was the whistle for?"

"We're entering the Capitol in five minutes. I thought we'd go watch."

We barely make it to the living car's window before the train plows through the mountain separating the Capitol from the rest of Panem. _Click_ go the lights right as darkness overtakes us and it is only rock we see. Being underground is slightly unnerving. I am used to the clear, open sky of District 2.

The Capitol, I realize once we are free of the mountain, is breath-takingly beautiful. Almost as if the city is answering my thoughts, blue sky erupts overhead, only the occasional white puffy cloud obscuring the sun. When it's not covered, light floods the sky-scrapers, reflecting off the glass and throwing beams of color in all directions. Everywhere there are cars. And even more than the cars, people. They cheer at our train, their bizarre fashion making me squint.

"What should we do?" I say. Eyes of the locals are locked on us.

Hesitantly, Cayden waves. This brings about another roar of approval. Several women blow kisses to him. He catches them and they go nuts.

"Great," I say. "Just what you need. Admirers." I have to admit, though, he does look nice.

"You're just afraid you'll have to share me," Cayden says. "But don't fret, love. I promise, you'll always be my favorite." To prove this, he leans down and kisses the crown of my head, much to the chagrin of our female onlookers. They hiss and boo.

I laugh.

"You just lost a lot of sponsors."

"Damn." His arms are suddenly at my sides and he's pushing me out of view. "Quick! There's still time! I might get one of those girls back!"

The train screeches to a halt at the station directly next to a huge building. The Training Center. It's a flurry of movement as Effin and Zeta magically appear, shouting for us to fix our hair, smooth out our clothes and, for Zeta's sanity, _stop_ fidgeting.

We are escorted off the train quickly. The Training Center looms over us. I can only stare as Effin hurries us forward. Can barely make my legs budge, I am so in awe. It looks so pristine and welcoming; I hardly believe that this is my home before I am tossed into the arena.

"Stand up straight!" Zeta orders me, her hot breath licking the back of my neck. I recoil at the feeling and instantly snap my spine rigid.

All around us are cameras. At the doors, on my heels, click, click, clicking in front of my dazed face. So stunned am I, I don't realize we've walked through the main entrance and into the lobby until Cayden says my name.

"What?" I say.

Wordlessly he points to the ceiling. Twinkling with all the splendor of the Capitol, a colossal diamond chandelier hangs by a thick gold chain. Around is in an elaborate mural, the subject matter the only thing hinting at the Games that are to come.

The annihilation of District 13.

I pull my eyes from the artistically depicted black smoke and flaming bodies and look forward. We are approaching an elevator, which opens the second Zeta pushes the button. I gasp as we step inside. The elevator is entirely see-through, exposing the splendor of the Capitol. Effin pushes the button marked _2_ and we shoot up. I press my hands against the sides, gleeful as a child. In what seems like no time at all, the elevator slows and the doors open, revealing a long hallway. Doors line both sides and Zeta directs me to one.

If I thought my room on the train was impressive, it is nothing compared to the sight that makes me stop in my tracks. A room double the size of my house back in District 2. Huge, curtained windows. A private bathroom. A vanity. Walk-in closet.

"It's not much," Zeta says as she strides in after me. "You should see District 1's lodgings. But it'll do."

Whatever finery Zeta is used to is beyond my imagining because I would never label such a room as 'not much.' "It's beautiful," I gasp.

"Yes, yes," she says annoyingly. "Now, get settled. Someone will be up with clothes for you." She leaves.

In a trance, I walk to the bed and run my hand over the cover. Marveling at the softness that tickles my skin. I sit down and kick off my heels. Oh, yes. The carpet is even better. Digging my toes into the lush fabric, I don't hear when someone comes in. Don't notice her presence until I hear a rolling sound. I bolt up instantly.

A woman-a servant-is loading up my drawers with various garments. She doesn't glance at me as she expertly folds the pants, shirts, and undergarments into piles. Then she moves onto the closet, where she hangs up half a dozen dresses in varying colors.

I can't see much of her from behind. Just dark hair pulled up into a bun. White tunic. Graceful hands.

"Thank you," I say, not wanting to be rude.

She visibly freezes at the sound of my voice, her hand lingering on a hanger. Slowly, so very slowly, she rotates around to me. Her eyes catch mine.

And suddenly I am falling. Deep, deep underground into a black void. A vacuum that sucks all the air from my lungs. Sound loses all meaning. The only steady thing is my heartbeat. And even it is uneven at best. _Boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom. Boom._ My voice catches in the back of my throat. But that's ok. I have no idea what to say. No idea how to recite what is going on in my head.

_Is this what drowning feels like?_ I wonder. Surely it must be. An overwhelming swell of water that pulls me and tosses me and spins me back and forth until I am sick. Until I can no longer breathe.

She looks as alarmed as I feel. The clothes piled over her arm tumble to the ground, but she doesn't reach down to pick them up. Just stares. Eyes wide. Mouth ajar.

"Mom." The word slips from my lips like water over a canyon wall. It can't be. It's impossible. But I know those brown eyes, so much like my own, anywhere. It is her. She is here. Right now. In front of me.

I am on my feet. Thought is thrown out the window as I bound to her, not conscious of my actions. I forget that I am being watched. My arms swing out and I engulf her in a tight embrace. Afraid that if I let go, she'll disappear. Vanish before my eyes like last year.

As she did when I was a child, her hand finds the back of my head and she is stroking my hair. Reassuring me. Silently telling me everything is going to be OK. Forget that she is at the mercy of the Capitol. Forget that she was taken from us, from me. Forget that I watched her get dragged out of my home by Peacekeepers. Once again she is the strong one. Once again, even after everything she's been through, it is me that needs the support.

I feel her crying. Our bodies shudder against one another. My tears soak through her clothing. The tears I refrained from spilling after that night. Now they flow freely. Happy, but sad at the same time. Relieved, but so utterly lost and confused.

We stay like this for a long time. It feels so good to have her warmth spreading through me. To hear her heart beating in her chest as furiously as my own. To know that she is alive. For the first time in months I don't feel like running. I want to stay right here.

She coaxes me to the bed. I refuse to let go of her arm. Drying the wetness from my cheeks with a single finger, she sits down next to me. Doesn't say anything.

"Mom," I sputter, overtaken with emotion. "How did-I mean, you were-how-"

She places that same finger to my lips, stopping me. I fall silent. Grasping both of my hands in one of hers, she looks me straight in the eye and bites her lip. Her other hand points to her throat. She shakes her head.

And I understand. Gasp. Shake my head. "No," I say. "No, they didn't. No."

But they have. They've cut her tongue out. My mother is an Avox. She will never speak again.

"No," I repeat as a fresh wave of tears roll from the corners of my eyes. I can't believe it. Thinking she was dead is one thing. The reality of her being alive but being tortured in such a way is something else entirely. All the grandeur around me loses its sparkle and shine as I grasp this truth. I am not visiting the amazing Capitol. No, I am a prisoner. Trapped in its iron grasp.

And my mother. She takes my sobbing with only a sad expression. Hugs me to her chest.

"I am so sorry," I blubber. "I am so sorry I couldn't save you."

At once she's pulling me back and scolding me with her eyes. I know what she's saying. _It's not your fault. Never your fault. The Capitol took me. There was nothing you could do. And even if there was, I wouldn't have wanted it._

"We've all been missing you. So much," I say. "Dad…" I can't bring myself to tell her how her husband fell into a depression. How he forgot Wes and me. How he never recovered. "And Wes…"

Mom pats me lovingly on the arm. Although I haven't said anything revealing about either, she knows. No doubt she's thought about us as much as we've thought about her. More, even.

Frustrated-I want so badly to hear her words-I do the one thing I can. I get up and grab the pad of paper and pen sitting atop the vanity and thrust it in her hands. "Write it," I say. "Write it down. Mom, I need…"

She knows what I need. Flicking the cap off, she scribbles out a message and shows me the pad.

_Tell me about them._

The look she gives me, so hauntingly desperate for news of Dad and Wes, breaks my heart. How she managed to live alone all these months I will never comprehend. "Dad…is broken." This description seems sufficient. Carefully choosing my words, I explain. Explain all about his sadness. His cutting me off. His hours in front of the television, dead to the world. Wes's drawings. His blank stares as he sat at the kitchen table nearly every night after. My running. My reliance on Cayden to get me through the day.

She listens, her face impassable. Perhaps she all ready suspected such weakness from us. She who knows us better than we know each other. She who kept my father strong, my brother open, and me sane. Yes, I can tell by the settled position of her jaw that my news is not surprising.

"I missed you," I finish, my voice cracking.

Leaning in, she forgoes the paper and places a gentle kiss on my brow. She nods, as if to say, _I know. And I have missed you._

"How did you do it?" I ask. "How…how are you still…alive?" The word tastes terrible.

I can barely see the tip of her pen as she rapidly carves out her story. After only a few short minutes she has worked her way through four sheets. Each one flutters to the bed cover and I snatch them up before they can touch, holding them to my chest like precious treasures.

When she is done, I read:

_I am not sure. After I was taken they locked me in a holding pen somewhere in District 2 with others. Like me, the prisoners all knew someone in District 13, and thus were labeled as traitors. We weren't fed, and the conditions we lived in were disgusting, at best. Not once were we engaged by Peacekeepers after being taken from our homes. For the most part we lived in silence. People didn't speak to one another. The quiet did little to help ease the tension and terror. We must have been in there for two weeks. One day they rounded us up and moved us to some sort of basement. Everyone was put in separate units. That was the worst part, being alone like that. There they decided to turn us into Avoxes. Many died as a result. There was so much blood. The screaming… Those of us who lived were then transported here by Hovercraft. We were told that the rest of our lives were to be spent as slaves to the Capitol, as punishment for our misdeeds. I've been here since then. I live in the servant's quarters with the other District 13 aiders. _

Her honesty and frank analysis actually makes me smile. Back home, she and I were very open about everything. I'd come home, complaining and ranting about the world, and she'd listen without trying to intervene. She'd just let me get it all out. It makes me so happy to know that despite how far away we've been apart nothing has changed. Well, things have changed. But our relationship hasn't.

"Who is here with you?" Who lived?

_Piper Lennon, Averis Godsby, Tyree Carmooth, Ursin Quint, Viper Jenkins._

So few. Of the thirty-four that were taken, only six survived. I thank everything in the known world that my mother is one of those.

_I saw the Reaping._

My mouth runs drying. The Reaping. The Games. A single second is all that is needed for my mind to go spiraling out of control. I will be entering the arena in only a few days. I will be taken from my mother after just finding her again. Most likely, I will never get another opportunity like this. Numbly, I nod, all euphoria of seeing her getting sucked away by reality.

_Talk to me._

She wants to hear my thoughts. Wants to attempt to understand what I'm going through. Not for her own benefit, but because she knows me well enough to know I still have unsaid emotions locked inside of me. That speaking to Wes, Dad and Cayden is not enough.

So I tell her. My fears. My dread. Cayden being my opponent. How I cannot, under any circumstances, hurt him, much less kill him. I know I will die. My detestation of Zeta. Effin's cruel smile as he called me up to the stage. The girl from District 11 haunting my dreams. My joy that Dad came to me to say goodbye. How hard it was to hold Wes for what I'm sure will be the last time. Cayden and my appearance as friends for the cameras.

Everything.

By the end of my spiel my shoulders are noticeably looser. I feel physically better. This is just what I needed. To let it all out and not be judged. Mom never judges me.

She opens her arms and hugs me tighter than before. Tears shine in her eyes, but don't fall. Her fist massages my back muscles. Nothing is right in the world, but in this moment I see a tiny pinprick of light. I try to harvest it, to keep it locked in my memory and very soul as unyieldingly as possible. I will need it in the coming days.

There is a knock at the door.

We freeze as we are. And then she's pulling herself from me and away, distancing us. The warmth leaves and I flail after her, searching for it. She shakes her head, scoops the fallen clothes from the floor and messily tosses them over her arm. The walk-in closet becomes her cave as her fingers fly to put everything in its place before my visitor comes in.

I become very angry that someone has interrupted our time together.

"It's open," I yell when the majority of my new dresses have been put away and I am in control of my frustration. Thinking it will be Cayden or Zeta, or even Effin striding in, I don't make any effort to fix my hair or put my shoes on. I only wipe my eyes and sniffle once.

The door opens. It's not Cayden. It's not Zeta. It's not Effin.

Mom pales when she sees who has entered my room. Blindingly quick, she finishes her task and slips out the door, an invisible person. The last thing I see is her eyes throwing me a frightened look before she's gone.

That look says one thing: _run_.

But I can't run. The adrenaline pumping through me urges me to move, but I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't. Because I have become a statue. Even if I wanted to give into the rational side of my brain, my limbs cannot be willed to move. I am stuck.

Staring into the eyes of Victor Nath.

President of Panem.


	5. Chapter V

**Chapter V**

* * *

Cayden. I need Cayden. Need his hand in mine, his words easing me. Need his eyes grounding me. Need him. Where is he? Surely he must be close. Outside the door eaves-dropping, or in the room next to mine, ear pressed to the wall. He'll come. When he hears the ragged bursts of air forcing their way out of my lungs, he'll appear. He has to.

"Calliope Westover," President Nath says. His eyes run up my body, stopping when they reach mine. A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his cheek, sending chills up my spine.

Where is Cayden?

"President Nath," I greet him. A spasm jerks through me, down my arms and hands as I grip the sides of my dress and sink into a curtsy. The action is the first thing to enter my head so I forget how outdated it is. He doesn't mind.

"Welcome to the Capitol." He draws the chair from my vanity over and sits down without being asked. I suppose it belongs to him, seeing as how he runs Panem. "Sit," he commands me roughly. The tone of his voice makes me jump and I crash down on the end of the bed. Peeking out from beneath my hem are the tips of my toes.

"Thank you," I say. Surely he hears the furious beating of my heart. It's so loud, I can barely make out his words.

"I trust your journey was a smooth one," he says.

The door opens without warning and my interest piques. Perhaps my mother has returned. But it is just some servant. Another Avox. He is carrying a small table and a silver platter. Setting both down between us, he takes the lid off the tray and reveals two plates of glazed pork, mashed potatoes and rolls, and two glasses of wine. After doing this, he leaves. President Nath hardly notices, his steely eyes locked on my face.

"It was," I nod, taken aback by the sudden meal before me.

"Good," he says, placing a cloth napkin in his lap. He crosses his legs. "Please, eat."

My hand trembles slightly as I pick up the fork. But then I tell myself to get it together, and quickly take a bite of the pork. Piping hot and very salty. A Capitol delicacy, no doubt.

He watches me. "You are probably wondering why I am here." Then, without waiting for a reply, he explains, "Being that this is the first Hunger Games, I will be taking a special interest in the tributes. The Gamemakers and I want this to be a big hit, and that means getting to know the individuals participating."

I am still chewing, so I only nod.

"I am an honest man. To engage viewers, we need substance. I can safely assume that you have all ready vowed to win. The prospect of losing is not an attractive one in this particular event. As such, I will say that the more you influence those watching you, the better chance you will have. I will not play favorites, but I will offer you some advice. Any cards that you have…play them. Here, entertainment is a way of life, and the more entertaining you are, the better."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, not catching the words before they leave my lips. It doesn't make any sense. The President is a vicious man. Enacting the games is proof enough. What could possibly prompt him to help me?

"Because I want a good turn-out in the ratings." At my still-confused face, he drops the niceties. I notice he has not taken a bite yet. "I shall put this bluntly. I know all about you. I know your family, your friends, your hobbies, everything. Put on a good show and I might let them live."

I choke on the mashed potatoes I've just put in my mouth, dropping my fork with a clatter. Hacking, I hold a hand to my chest. Did he just-? Yes, he did. He has threatened me. Point-blankly told me that unless I cooperate and put on the best show I can, those I love will be put in danger.

He doesn't reach out to help me. He sits there and smiles cruelly, pleased by my reaction. Beneath the round glasses he wears, I can see the sadistic happiness in his stormy gray eyes. The room grows cold.

"Do we have an understanding, Ms. Westover?" he says when I've recovered.

Because there is nothing else I can do, I nod my head. I had always known my own life was shot. Only now do I realize that the tributes are not the only contenders in the Games. All those we cherish and hold dear are being executed as well, purely because of relations. My stomach churns and I suddenly become very mad. Play with me all you want. Mess with Wes, Cayden and my father and you've crossed the line. Heck, he's all ready crossed the line with my mother.

"Fabulous," President Nath says, taking a bite of the pork. "I've heard you're quite the spitfire. I must say I'm pleased by your acceptance. I had been expecting retaliation. A woman who can hold her tongue in front of her superiors is a treasured thing indeed."

He did not just say that. If I was mad before, I'm livid now. For all the terrible things that happen in District 2, sexism is not one of the bigger issues. People are so hard pressed to stay alive and keep their families safe and income secure, gender doesn't come into play. This is obviously not the case in the Capitol.

"I agreed to play your game to the best of my abilities," I say, vision going dark with rage. "I never said I would play quietly. Remember, President Nath, you chose me for this. Anything that comes out of my mouth is no one's fault but yours."

I doubt anyone has spoken to him in such a way before. He stops chewing, eyes fixed on my insolent expression. Part of me expects him to strike me, but in the end he doesn't. Just wipes his mouth with the napkin and clears his throat.

"Obviously I chose well," he says. Then he goes back to eating.

I sit with my arms crossed, not touching my food. He's riled me. I want him out of my room, off the floor, out of the building, miles from the Capitol. As far away from me as he can get. But my wishes fall on deaf ears, and he continues devouring his plate, not commenting on my decision to not join him.

When his plate is finally empty, he rises, dropping his napkin onto the table. The past twenty minutes have been brutal, with neither of us speaking, me smoldering at his comment. "Ms. Westover," he gives his leave. Walking to the door, I count the seconds until I'm free of his presence. I have to bite my tongue to withhold the groan when he stops less than a foot from the door.

"Before I forget," he says, his gaze striking me through the heart. In the harsh glow given off by the lights overhead, his skin looks sickly yellow, his blonde hair, so neatly coiffed, fake. "That was a touching scene. Almost a bit…too touching. You'll receive a new Avox attendant at once. Don't want our sweet little _Cali_-" his lips caress my name, "-getting distracted by her _mommy_."

He's out the door before I understand what he's said. When the realization hits, I lose it. With a roar, I grab the object nearest me-my wine glass-and pelt it after the ghost of him. It shatters against the door upon impact, shards of crystal falling, the red liquid staining the carpet.

I don't care if he's heard me. He saw Mom and me. And now, once again, he's taking her away from me. I have every reason to be angry, every reason to lash out.

And lash out I do. His wine glass follows mine, joining the pile of sleek fragments on the floor. The two plates go next; food coats the door and surrounding walls. I'm making a mess, but nothing matters to me anymore.

Within a few minutes, the crashing sounds alert Effin, Zeta and Cayden. Zeta swears when she steps on the broken pieces littering the carpet. She's wearing thin sandals today, and one of the crystal slivers has pushed through the material and sunk into her foot. I know I should feel bad, but after everything that's happened, coupled with my hatred of her, I only feel a small sense of glee.

"What," Effin asks, taking in the site of my walls, "is going on in here?"

"President Nath visited you, didn't he?" Cayden says.

I answer by chucking the silverware at my vanity. Both fork and knife hit the glass, and long cracks appear in the mirror. A large chunk falls free, dousing the vanity in glass.

"All right, all right," Effin reprimands me, stalking to me and grabbing my wrist before I can get my hands on anything else. "That's enough. Whatever President Nath said is in the past. Quit acting so childish."

I rip my wrist free of his hold. "You have no idea," I say, spitting venom, "what just happened. So don't you dare say I'm acting childish. If you had any idea…"

Zeta still stands in the doorway, taking off her sandal and plucking the crystal shaving from her foot. Giving credit where it's due, she doesn't wince or make any indication that it hurts. Fastening her sandal back on, she straightens and purses her lips at my outbreak.

"I hope you can control your temper better than that in the arena," is all she says.

I open my mouth to retaliate, but Cayden cuts me off.

"Nath visited me too," he says. "Right before you. He threatened your family, didn't he?"

I nod. An overwhelming need to tell Cayden about my mother overtakes me and, like Nath, I want Effin and Zeta out of my room. "That and he decided to rub his pervy eyes all over me," I state dryly. "Seriously, could we have a more messed up country?"

"Bite your tongue," Zeta snaps, and she glances to the corner of my room. She knows where the cameras are, documenting this whole thing. What I say will be saved and analyzed, no doubt. "You stupid girl. Remember, your life is no longer in your own hands. I suggest you start thinking before you speak."

I scowl.

"Now," Zeta goes on, rubbing her temples, "if you're done whining, it's time to go meet your stylists. Selma and Ryker just called me to say they are ready for you." When no one moves, she tsks loudly and tries to bustle Cayden out into the hall. He stumbles. "We haven't got all day. Believe me, you two need all the time you can get."

I am not so cooperative. Zeta pauses in her attempt to push me after Cayden, stopped by the glare I wear. I am in no mood to be touched and prodded and plucked and violated against my will by people I have never met before. Especially after all that's happened.

"You have five seconds to get in that elevator," Zeta growls at me.

Truthfully, if she really wanted to, she could easily force me out of the room. What little upper body strength I have is no match for her, even though she's stick-thin. My will is stronger than hers, though. With my eyes I silently tell her that no way in hell am I going anywhere with her.

But she knows my weakness. And she has no trouble playing it.

"Cayden?" she calls him back in.

He must have been waiting down the hall, for it takes a minute or so for him to reappear. When he does, Zeta points in my direction, like I'm a naughty child and says, "Either you get her moving, or I will drag her to the stylists by her hair."

Cayden throws me an imploring look. "Come on, darling," he coaxes me. Crossing my arms, I deny his plead. He sighs and looks to Zeta, ducking his head toward the door. She gets the message, and she and Effin leave us alone. Cayden walks to me. In a low whisper, he says, "What's wrong, Cali?"

"I don't want to see the stylists," I say. I'm acting like a brat, I know. I can't help it. I'm still angry.

"Neither do I," he says. "Now what's the real problem?"

"Before Nath came in…my mom was in here."

Cayden's eyebrows go up. "What are you talking about?"

"She's an Avox here. After she was taken from District 2, they cut out her tongue and brought her here."

"Well that's great!" Seeing my expression, he quickly amends, "Not that she's an Avox. But that she's alive."

"It would be," I say, "if it weren't for the fact that Nath told me if I don't cooperate he's going to kill her. Not only that, but he said he was removing her as my Avox. He said I would be too distracted to perform well."

Cayden's eyes soften.

"I've lost her again, Cayden," I say, and for some reason I must choke down a sob. It's sprung up from nowhere. It scares me.

"You haven't lost her," Cayden says. Cupping my chin, he elevates my head. "The only reason he would kill her is if you don't play along. I got the same spiel in my room. Do as he says, and she'll be fine. Win the game, and I'm sure you'll see her again."

I don't know what to say to this. He's right of course. If I keep my head down, if I do everything Nath says, I'm sure she'll be fine. Knowing that she's alive and not being able to see her, however…it eats away at me.

"Did he threaten your family?" I ask.

Cayden nods gravelly. "Of course. He didn't come right out and say it, but I got the gist of it." Curling the end of my hair around one of his fingers, he says, "Doing what they say starts now, sweetie. Come with me to the stylists. I promise, I'll protect you from them if they get too rough."

"Promise?"

"Even if I have to battle my way through a hundred dresses."

Feeling better doesn't seem to be an option, but Cayden draws my resilience out of me as no one else can. With a few more words, he's convinced me to join Effin and Zeta in the elevator. I'm not happy about it. The ride to the first floor is quick. We're then loaded into a car and driven through the city to the Remake Center.

Truthfully, the ride through the Capitol is nothing short of spectacular. The buildings glint and shimmer in the sun, the cars slink by, gleaming bright colors. The people, on the other hand, are humorous at best. District 2 boasts some strange fashions-I've seen everything from bikini tops paired with feathered skirts, to dark leggings made of fur and six inch high heels-but it's nothing like here. There, most people wear sterile white lab coats and sensible slacks. Such an outfit, I realize, would look positively otherworldly in the Capitol.

Resisting the urge to drop my jaw at the sights that greet me is difficult, but Zeta is watching me in the rearview mirror, so I fight it. People wave and holler as they recognize us through the windows, but I don't acknowledge them. After twenty minutes, we arrive at the Remake Center.

I don't know what I was expecting. Fuchsia walls and orange and blue polka-dotted carpet maybe. Certainly something shocking to the senses, for sure. But the Remake Center is pretty average. Well, nothing could be average in the Capitol. But this place, at least, I can inspect without feeling like I need sunglasses.

The attendant at the front directs us to the elevators, which are not see-through like at the Training Center, and we head up to the second floor. It is here that Cayden and I are forcibly moved apart from each other. He disappears in one room, and I disappear in another. All I can think is, _Who will save me now?_

Inside my room, two people meet me. The first is a woman who much better fits my expectations of the Remake Center. She's altered her face to resemble a bird; the skin around her eyes has been plucked and pulled away, giving her eyeballs the roundest shape possible. Her eyebrows are gone completely. Vivid reds, yellows and blues dye her hair, which is gelled up around her head, like the plume of a wild fowl. She wears a dress made entirely of feathers.

The man, in comparison, is fairly normal. Apart from his waist-length purple hair and silver lips, he's done nothing to change his appearance. Dark pants and a silver, skin-tight shirt. Yes, he relaxes me more than the woman. Though the idea that any of these people could relax me frightens me at the same time.

"You must be Calliope?" the woman asks the minute Zeta thrusts me into the room and closes the door. She hurries forward and takes my hands in hers, holding them to her chest and inclining her head to me.

"Uh, Cali," I correct her, taken aback by her close proximity.

"Welcome?" She gestures to the man and introduces them, "I am Lorita and this is Damien? We are assistants to your stylist, Ryker?" She has a habit of ending all her sentences with a question.

"I'm not with Selma?" I ask weakly. I had thought I would be paired with the girl stylist. Do I really feel comfortable exposing my body to a random man I've never met before?

_Do you have a choice otherwise?_ I think to myself.

"Oh, no?" Lorita shakes her head. Her voice is so high; I wonder if dogs come running when she's on the street. "No, Ryker is your stylist?"

"Oh." Some warning would have been nice. Zeta is probably down the hall, laughing her guts out at how uncomfortable she knows I am. Really, this is all too much for one day.

"We shall get started?" Lorita gestures to the back of the room, where there is a raised platform, surrounded by three full-length mirrors. A table sits off to the side. Tweezers, rolls of parchment, foul smelling bottles and other horror devices twinkle maniacally at me. Whatever they plan to do to me will not be fun.

"I guess," I say.

And it begins. I'm allowed to wear a robe, but it is almost immediately stripped off my body. I have no time to be self-conscious. Every attempt I make to cover myself, as Lorita and Damien circle me, roughly jerking my hair this way and that, holding my limbs in various uncomfortable positions, plucking me, and dousing me in concoctions, is met with a slap and words of disapproval. Not a strip of me is left alone.

"Hold still?" Lorita tells me as I nearly bolt for the door when she rips back a waxing strip from my underarms. I can't tell if she's angry or not. Her lack of eyebrows hinders my ability to read her expression.

When my body is completely free of hair besides what's on my head, I am lead to a bathtub. Bubbles coat the surface and it smells rancid. I must force myself to get in, and as soon as I am, hands lather me, scrubbing every inch of my raw surface.

The serum is for soothing though because, for as putrid as it stinks, my skin turns baby soft. Tangles loosen in my hair; it falls gently to my shoulders. It's too good to last. Just as I am beginning to think, _This isn't so bad_, I am told to get out. The air is freezing against my soaked body.

The next three hours are much more of the same thing. My nails are done, my eyebrows waxed, face exfoliated, teeth whitened. My hair is put up, a few loose strands hooking down around my chin. Then I am repainted with eye shadow, eyeliner, lipstick, blush, powder. More products then I could name.

Somewhere, in all the perfume and brushes, I think of Cayden and wonder how he is handling this.

By the end, I no longer recognize myself. Standing naked in front of the mirror, I take in my body. So smooth and natural looking. The make-up is striking; dark, smoky lashes and bright red lips. My hair in a messy bun. I look, in a word, sexy. And it feels so wrong.

"Perfect," Damien remarks when it's all over. It's the first thing he's said all day. His eyes are glued to my reflection, but not in a tainted way. A critical, calculating way. I am his work, he is the artist.

"You look beautiful?" Careful to not ruin my face, Lorita pushes my chin up. Her own eyes inspect me, so wide I have to be remind myself to not cringe. "It was not so bad, yes?"

What I really want to say is that it was the most violating thing I've ever been through, but that will only hurt their feelings, I'm sure. Like any sculptors, they are trying to capture something perfect. Putting down all their hard work is wrong, no matter how I feel. I settle for nodding.

"We shall go get Ryker?" They skip out of the room, and I am left alone.

At once I scramble for the robe, desperate for a moment to myself before this Ryker person comes in. Deep breaths fight their way through my lungs. _Just a little while longer,_ I tell myself. _Just a little while longer._

Ryker enters the room. I clutch the ends of the robe.

"Miss Calliope," he greets me, looking at my face. Not demanding I take the robe off. That's good. Points for him. Like Lorita and Damien, his hair color is not natural, a dark evergreen. He wears skinny pants and a black turtleneck. "I am Ryker, your stylist. I see my assistants did a fabulous job with your face."

"Depends on who you ask," I say.

"You do not like it?" In stark contrast to Lorita, his voice is thick and deep.

I am sure I am being watched (and all my nakedness was too), so in place of the flat response I want to give, I simply say, "It's not something I'd do myself."

"That I can understand," he nods. "Still, permit me to say, you will win many affections tonight at the opening ceremonies." Noticing my expression, he goes on, "Do you not know what the opening ceremonies are?"

"I know they are to show Panem the contestants, but that's all." I realize Zeta's been a terrible mentor so far-she hasn't spilt one detail of what is to come tonight beyond me being paraded around in a costume for the country to see.

"For all intents and purposes, that is correct. But it's also a chance for the contestants to make their marks on the audience. This will be a big part in getting sponsors. As I am sure you are planning on winning, I must impress on you that you looking this way is all for a very good reason."

"If you say so."

Now he looks to my body. "Would you please take the robe off for a moment?" he prompts me.

Choking down my resistance, I let my shield fall. Like Lorita and Damien, he surveys me not as a human, but as a model. A creature made simply for showing off his work.

"Yes," he says, winding his way around me to see all sides. "They did well. You _will_ look fabulous. Tell me, is there anything you see wrong?"

"Besides the fact that I feel nothing like myself?" I scan the mirror. "I don't know."

He sighs. "If you could only understand what this look will do for you." Ryker bends down and picks my robe off, proffering it to me before asking me to sit down on the platform. I do as he says and tuck my legs to the side.

"By now I am sure you are curious to know what else we have in store for you," he says with a devilish smirk. "The Gamemakers requested that we design the outfits in celebration of each District's specialty."

"How in Panem are you supposed to make lab coats stylish?" I wonder. Now it seems being in the medical district is a joke. Of course, compared to lumber and fishing…it could be worse.

"Miss Calliope-"

"Cali."

"Miss Cali, then," he says. "Never underestimate what we stylists can do. Our imaginations hold no limits. That being said, I hope you're comfortable in heels."

Another hour later, and I am cursing President Nath, cursing the Capitol, cursing my mother and father for having me. When Ryker said heels, I thought he meant two inches, three at most. I should be so lucky. The heels I am wearing are a good five inches tall. All ready my feet are screaming in protest and the opening ceremonies haven't even begun.

Walking to the chariot that will take us to the City Circle, I catch a glimpse of the other tributes in person for the first time. They all look as frightened and nervous as I feel, many pacing the stables we are in to alleviate the stress of the upcoming event. When Ryker put me in my outfit, I thought he was off his rocker. Seeing the other tributes denies this. _All_ the stylists are off their rockers. I see tributes from the agriculture district, dressed in cow skin, sporting farming equipment in their hands. The girl from District 1, where luxury goods are produced, is covered from head to toe in pure gold paint. The boy from District 4, the one I cowered before when I saw him on TV, is even more intimidating in person, scales grafted into his lower half to resemble a fish.

"There she is," Cayden says and I nearly double over from shock.

Ryker and Selma's idea is to make us look like sexy doctors. Ha. The concept seemed laughable in the styling room. Sexy doctors? Please. But seeing Cayden makes me rethink my opinion of their decision.

His hair is tousled out, looking like he just rolled out of bed. His lab coat is open, exposing his bare stomach, and he wears tight black pants tucked into boots. A stethoscope hangs around his neck. Someone (most likely Selma) had the bright idea to give him dark-rimmed glasses.

My heart starts pulsing. Which is weird.

"You were supposed to save me," I reply at once, putting my hands on my hips.

I must have underestimated Ryker because instead of throwing a comeback, Cayden just stares at me. Yes, my lab coat is open. Yes, I am in a low-cut black shirt that simultaneously bares my navel. Yes, my leggings are body-hugging. Yes, my heels are five inches high. Yes, I have a messy bun, sultry make-up and rimmed glasses just like him.

But he doesn't have to stare.

I punch him in the shoulder. Hard.

"Hey!" I say.

He blinks twice and then snaps out of it, blushing furiously.

"You look…" he starts, but falters for words.

"_Don't_ tell me," I say, pulling the lab coat across my front. It's tapered though, and refuses to go all the way around. How can something I've been wearing all my life suddenly feel so wrong?

"Right." Cayden clears his throat. "So, ready for this?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Ah, good. Me neither. At least I won't be the only one freaking out."

A shout goes out for the tributes to get to their chariots. Cayden helps me walk, letting me slump against him whenever my legs do a dangerous wobble. Seriously, how do people walk in these? Our four horses that will be pulling us are so white, they almost glow. I nearly do a face-plant trying to step onto the chariot.

After a minute, Ryker and Selma suddenly appear. Selma is a very statuesque woman, with short, spiky red hair. When they see us, our stylists let out a little, "Ahh!" As if seeing us is the happiest moment of their lives.

"The rest of the tributes should be jealous," Ryker says, taking my hand and having me twirl on the spot so he can get one last look at me. "You will be wonderful. Those cameras won't be able to keep off of you."

Selma reaches up and adjusts Cayden's glasses, and then runs her hand through his hair, making it look even more windswept.

"One minute!" the person in charge yells. "District 1, you're up."

District 1's chariot pulls out from their stable and heads toward the large double doors leading out to the path that will take them to the City Circle.

"District 2 at the ready."

"This is it," Selma says. "Both of you, keep your heads held high. Confident is the best thing you could be right now. The audience will pick up on it and fall in love with you. A stable tribute is a tribute that has a better chance of winning. They'll sponsor you."

"Be friendly," Ryker chimes in. "Wave to the audience. If you're friendly, they'll remember you. Acknowledge them. Smile." He asks us to practice for him, so we do. With two fingers, he widens my lips, stretching them painfully far.

"District 2, you're up."

The chariot starts as the four horses prance forward, guiding themselves. Cayden and I say goodbye to Ryker and Selma. Then turn to face the doors and the thousands of people beyond them. As we roll out, the eyes of every other tribute is on us.

"Here we go," Cayden says.

"Pray I don't fall in these heels," I tell him.

"If you do, I'll catch you," he promises.

And with his words to settle me, I arc my head up, square my shoulders.

And the doors open.

* * *

**A/N: **It's been awhile, hasn't it? Sorry about that. I'm getting back into the full-swing of things, so expect more consistent updates. Reviews are loved and replied to!


	6. Chapter VI

**Chapter VI**

* * *

Lights blind me. Colors dance across my vision. Instantly my hand flies up to cover my eyes, the other gripping the side of the chariot. But the lights are nothing compared to the sound. A single, unified cry blows me back the second we are through the doors. It's so deafening, I nearly fall over in my heels. Cold creeps up my sides. I wish I had a shirt that covered my stomach. The Capitol is freezing.

When I can see, I do a double-take. All around us are people. They number in the thousands; the only thing keeping them from rushing into the street and to the chariots is a yellow rope that winds the length of the block.

The chariot in front of us is already forty feet away, rounding a corner. I barely catch a glimpse of the girl tribute's golden paint before the horses pull her out of sight. District 2 is the center of attention.

"Look!" Cayden screams over the noise, pointing above our heads. Colossal television screens have been erected on the buildings. Our progress is being tracked by cameras, streamed live to all of Panem.

I catch my breath. As uncomfortable as I may feel in this outfit, especially now in the night air, Ryker and Selma have done it. Waving, smiling and keeping our heads up give us an air of confidence. I look perfectly at ease in my skimpy outfit. Cayden looks incredible. Together we are sexy and smug.

"Calliope!" I hear my name being called. I wave in the general direction of the voice and a thunderous roar goes out. Glints of gold, silver, red, neon green, and pink sparkle out of the corner of my eye.

Our horses swing into a curve. From what I can tell, we're only about a quarter of the way to the City Center. My feet are numb from standing, and as we round the corner my legs give out beneath me. Cayden catches me around the waist and pulls me into his side. I can feel his heart pounding in his bare chest. His warmth feels good. I glance up to thank him. My voice falls short.

He's staring down at me intensely, a breath-taking smile on his face. Squeezing my mid-section against him, he looks out to the crowd and blows a kiss. The screams that let loose are entirely female. I roll my eyes. Seeing this, he hastens down and kisses my forehead. His chin bumps my glasses and they fall off.

By now, I am laughing. The energy in the air, Cayden's hold on me—I am happier than I should be. The fact that all these people came here to see us—to see me—makes my heart swell. For one blissful moment I allow myself to forget the coming Games and enjoy the moment.

From the floor of our chariot, Cayden scoops up my glasses and plants them on my face. I'm feeling light-headed. Not thinking straight. All those girls cheering for him… Cayden is my friend. Mine. They can't have him. To prove this point I kiss him on the cheek. I don't have to stretch, for my heels put me directly at his height. When I pull away, I see my lipstick has left a red stain on his face. He puts a hand to the place where I touched him.

Different screams carry out. Half of them are, "Awwwww!'s" The rest are boos. I know I can't count on the young women in the audience for sponsors.

Every couple of minutes the screens overhead change to show a new District coming out. It's interesting to see how the other tributes react. Most just stand there, shell-shocked. But some are making an effort like us. The two siblings from District 8 wildly shake their hands in the air, drinking in the atmosphere. I see the deranged girl from 11 has both wrists chained to the side of her chariot. Her partner is standing as far away from her as he can get.

Cayden and I are still waving when at last we pull into the center of the City Circle next to District 1. The girl beams at me when I catch her eyes and I smile back, both of us forgetting what has brought us here. Her wild red hair is free-flowing. Under her façade, I notice she's shivering in her painted outfit. The boy tribute is just as flawless.

Fifteen minutes later and all the chariots are in place. There is the crackle of a loudspeaker, and President Nath steps onto the round stage that the chariots form a ring around. He waves to the crowds, who cheer uproariously. It takes him many minutes to quiet them.

"Good evening!" he says, "And welcome to the first annual opening ceremonies of the Hunger Games!" His eyes sweep across the tributes. "Let's give a hand to all our contestants and their wonderful stylists!"

Selma and Ryker are probably drinking to their success right about now.

Nath proceeds to give an energetic speech about how the Hunger Games idea came into being. As he talks, I look around, floored by the sheer number of people. Prestigious officials hover over us in the windows of the buildings surrounding the City Circle. For some reason that escapes me, the camera capturing the moment is going down the line of tributes instead of focusing on Nath.

When the camera gets to District 2, both Cayden and I smile broadly, waving. Then, before the focus is shifted off of us, Cayden pulls me into a hug and we embrace on national television. It's not a formal hug—it's one of those where he crushes me to him and I am grinning like an idiot, my face half-mashed into his chest. He still has the imprint of my lips on him. I blow a kiss to Panem.

"Let the Hunger Games begin!" Nath finishes with a flourish. The National Anthem floods the City Circle. As it plays, the horses start, doing one last sprint around the ring. For one final time our faces hold the screen, and then the chariots make their way to the Training Center.

I collapse the second we are out of sight. My calves are burning and goose bumps have broken all along my arms and mid-section. "Get them off!" I say, leaning against Cayden for balance as I struggle with the strap holding my heel on.

"Here," he says. Taking my foot, he flicks the strap out of the loop and yanks the terrible contraption off. He does the same with my other heel.

"Oh," I moan as my throbbing feet touch the bottom of the chariot. The angle of the shoes has left strain in my muscles. It actually hurts to stand normally. "Finally. I was dying out there."

"You looked happy to me."

"A mask to hide the pain, pretty boy," I explain. The man who has jumped up to take care of the horses winces. I realize I am shouting. The noise outside has left me partially deaf for the moment. "That was crazy."

Cayden takes off his glasses. "I liked it. All those girls… Of course, I always knew I was good looking."

I laugh, agreeing in my head. He does look good. "Right," I voice instead. "Come here, Romeo." Using the back of my hand, I wipe the lipstick from his cheek. Part of it rubs in accidently, and he appears flushed. "The red adds some class."

Just then, a familiar voice calls for District 2. Cayden and I look around, catching sight of Ryker and Selma weaving their way toward us. Cayden helps me down from the chariot, and Ryker grabs my head, kissing my crown. I am receiving all sorts of kisses today.

"You were brilliant," he says to me.

"You both were," Selma clarifies.

"Here," and Ryker brandishes a pair of black flats, "put these on." I do as he says. "I hope neither of you have exhausted your nerve, for the evening is not over. President Nath has called for a dinner for all the tributes. You're to come as is, but I figured a change of shoes wouldn't matter."

"A dinner?"

He scrutinizes me. "Yes, just a touch up around the eyes, cheeks and lips, and you should be fine."

Without another word, Selma swings around the purse she's wearing and digs inside. She pulls out more eye shadow than I've ever seen before. Case after case of cosmetics appears until both stylists are wobbling precariously under the weight.

"Hold still," Ryker commands, "and close your eyes."

I disappear into a haze of powder. When he's finished with my eyes, he moves to my lips.

"Chin down."

Tugging my gaze from where the boy from District 4 is stomping to the door leading to the actual interior of the Training Center, I comply. He looked so ferocious and confident. Like everything is beneath him. No doubt he will be a strong competitor. Hopefully I won't have to face him.

"Just a little more." With one final flick of the brush adding blush to my cheeks I am deemed acceptable.

"We shall escort you to the dinner," Selma says, finishing up with Cayden.

They lead us up stairs into the Training Center. As we pass by, other tributes are receiving adjustments from their stylists. A boy in a miner's helmet watches us go by, looking annoyed by all the coal dust the short woman in front of him is layering over his skin.

The inside of the Training Center is impressive. We walk down a long hallway, paintings of Panem officials lining us on either side. Some material I can't identify is attached to the bottom of my flats, so they clack with each step I take.

"Sorry," Ryker apologizes, seeing my annoyance. "But if you weren't going to wear heels, I had to do something to spice it up. Flats aren't what are in right now. This way at least you won't be a total fool."

I bite my tongue to keep from retorting.

Selma directs us down three more corridors and a second staircase before we arrive outside the dining hall. Two Peacekeepers stand guard on either side of the ruby curtains separating the hallway from the room. Sometime during our trek, Cayden's arm found my waist again and now he gives me a little squeeze.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Good luck," Selma says.

With that, she and Ryker leave. Cayden goes first, removing his hold on me and stepping through the curtains. He holds them out for me as I walk past the Peacekeepers, doing my best to ignore them. They say nothing. What greets me on the other side is…bizarre.

I had been expecting a formal table with twenty-five plush, grand seats around it—one for each tribute and President Nath. What I find instead is a simple glass island in the center of an oval room. The island is piled high with food. Blood-red curtains like the ones I just walked through act as the walls, and a huge diamond chandelier hovers above the eight tributes standing awkwardly around the table. Every five feet, surrounding them, are Peacekeepers, guns at the ready.

"Well, this is uncomfortable," Cayden so eloquently says.

The tributes look up at the sound of his voice. There is a mismatch of costumes; one pair is dressed up in threadbare clothing, wearing old-time newsboy caps; District 7 is in body-hugging brown unitards, their hair dyed green, sticking straight out like leaves; the same farmers I saw earlier are here, picking at their cow skin; lastly, the boy and girl from District 4 stand proud, both looking unearthly. A mermaid and merman so entrancing, I itch to touch their scales to see if they are real.

"Uh, hi," Cayden addresses them, tugging me down the steps of the marble staircase toward them.

"Hey," answers the boy from 7. He turns to the others. "What do you think? Six?"

"I'd say Ten," guesses his girl counterpart. "That's DNA testing, isn't it?"

"I thought Ten was mathematics."

District 4 boy scoffs at what he perceives to be clear stupidity. "Idiots. They're from Two. The medicine district? That's what the lab coats are for." He crosses his arms and leans on the island. His scales glint off the glass.

"Fishboy is right; we're from Two," Cayden says. We've made it to the bottom of the stairs, but Cayden doesn't stop there. He steers me to the island and immediately grabs a handful of food, scarfing it like it's his last meal. It kind of is. I stand back in repulsion and catch the blue eyes of the girl newsie. The one who fainted at the reaping.

"Boys," she says sympathetically and rolls her eyes. "Arrow is the same way. Our mentor lost his lunch watching him eat. My brothers are just as bad."

"So is mine."

"Aren't they just disgusting?" She laughs, her teeth, very clearly whitened for the cameras, flashing. It's the first genuine laugh I've heard apart from Cayden's since we left 2. I decide I like this girl. She holds her hand out. "I'm Farrah, District 9. Nice to meet ya."

"Cali," I supply back. Her handshake is firm, fingers calloused.

"Don't forget me," Cayden stops eating long enough to gasp. The others are picking at the offerings alongside him. Another district has joined the pack. "After all, I am the better half of this duo. Name's Cayden. Enchanté," he growls, flipping Farrah's hand over to press a kiss to the back of it.

"Ignore him," I tell her and I push him in the chest. He stumbles over his feet. "Everyone else does."

"Noted," Farrah says, not looking at all put off by his behavior. Having brothers boosts one's immunity to idiocy. "By the way, your stylists are brilliant. With that kind of charm and those outfits—you'll have no problem getting sponsors."

"Aw, she's making me blush."

"Just stuff your face already, Cayden."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"You don't like your outfit?" I ask. Truth be told, she looks like an impoverished child, slaving away in grime. District 9 is hunters and food processors. Odd choice in clothing for the opening ceremonies.

"All this dirt is making my eyes water," she complains, rubbing them. Red lightning bolts stab the whites of them. "My stylist did a little reading. Apparently children in factories wore these before Panem became a nation. Except those kids worked with textiles, not meat. This would be better suited for Eight or Three."

"I don't know anyone yet, so I'll take your word for it." I know some of the District's specialties, but not all of them.

"Well, I've been asking around. Here, I'll show you." She steps back and does a visual sweep of the room. Ten of the twelve districts are here. "Ok, see those two up there, in the tree costumes? That's Nevva and Gavin from District 7. Whatever you do, don't comment on Gavin's missing finger. You don't want to hear the story.

"District 11 is by the punch bowl. The boy's name is Locke. The deranged girl is Tibbs. I'm praying I don't have to face her in the Games. I looked at her once and she nearly ripped her binds to shreds trying to get at me.

"Fishboy and fishgirl are from 4. I feel bad for Rayna. She's only twelve and she has _him_for a fellow tribute. The gossip mill is saying he's already the shoo-in to win. Sponsors have formed lines outside the Training Center to bet on him."

Just as she says this, the boy looks at us. A smirk slides in place, as though he knows word for word what we are saying.

Farrah doesn't react. Twisting her head, she gives me the rundown on the other tributes. Jules and Star from One, both tall and muscular. Nettle and Mead from Three; Mead has a girlfriend back home. Tuck and Amoria from Five, looking oh-so-trendy in their cow skins. Aspen and Dash from Six, visibly avoiding each other. Pepper and Maybeck from Eight; siblings with hair so white, I can hardly believe they are only sixteen and fourteen. And the last two districts to arrive: Willa and Rowen from Ten in their round spectacles, and Vika and Iral from Twelve, appearing very naked under their layers of coal dust. Farrah rattles this all off quickly. Obviously she's not shy, for she's spoken to everyone about everyone. Even me.

"They say you're a feisty one," she tells me an hour into the party. We've forgone our place near the island and have settled for a sit on the warm carpet, under the watchful eyes of the Peacekeepers. "I heard you riled up President Nath."

"Where did you hear that?"

She grins, a crooked grin to match her crooked, chopped hair hanging loose of her hat. "The Avoxes know everything. I had a written conversation with one when he came to clean my room. Is it true your mother is an Avox?"

"Yes. She was taken for having relatives in 13."

Our voices are at a whisper. The subject isn't forbidden, but neither is it encouraged.

"Do tell."

"They dragged her from our house," I recount. Part of me wonders why in all of Panem am I telling this to a girl I've just met. I know the answer—because she will understand, being in the Games. Besides, when will I get another chance to speak with someone from another District? "I tried to stop it, but I c—"

"There you are," a voice interrupts me. I look up to see Farrah's partner, Arrow. Like her, he has brown hair and blue eyes. A long scar cuts into his cheek bone and his hands are as calloused as hers. "Twelve is asking for you," he tells Farrah.

"What could they want?" I wonder.

"An alliance," Farrah says. "I'll be right back. Don't move! You're the first truly interesting person I've met here. I want to hear the rest of that story." She gets up and follows Arrow across the room. As she walks away, I notice that many of the tributes are huddled into small circles; their heads bent low, their voices quiet. Even Cayden. Speaking of Cayden, I notice the food has been demolished.

Farrah's not gone long before I receive an unexpected visitor.

Russet hair, so shiny and silky it captivates me, gets brushed back from green eyes, and I am looking into the face of none other than Keenan. The monster from Four. Even while sitting, he has over a foot on me; he uses this to leer into my personal space. He's intimidating and he knows it.

I think of how he treated the others when Cayden and I walked in. My blood boils.

"If it isn't the little nurse from Two," Keenan says. He is very clearly staring at my chest. Up close, his muscles are distracting, but not because they look nice. Because they are _huge_. "Welcome to the Games. Making friends, are we?"

"Jealous?" I spit back. "I can't imagine many people in Four wanting to hang out with such a primeval moron."

Ok, so it wasn't my best comeback.

He chuckles at my attempt. "You _do _have a tongue on you! And I thought everyone was bluffing. Good. We can use that to our advantage."

"_Our _advantage? Somehow I don't remember us discussing working together."

"Like we need to discuss it." He invades my breathing room by sliding his face closer to mine. "Look, I'll make this nice and simple. I'm going to win these Games. Period. So don't get your hopes up about going home. Being the victor, I've decided the last thing I want is a bunch of poor, lesser districts taking second. How dumb would I look if I won against one of those albino freaks?"

"You mean dumber than normal?"

"Districts 1 and 3 have already agreed to a pack. It'll be their job—your job—to take out the losers. Think of it as your lifetime career, considering you'll be dying soon. Go down with some dignity. Or there will be no mercy for Two in the beginning."

I snort rather unladylike. "Let me get this straight: you want Cayden and me to help you just to put off our deaths for another few hours?" Tears swim in my eyes as giggles wrack my sides. "I'll pass."

His eyes flash dangerously. "Don't be a fool. You have no chance of beating me. Why not join us? I promise your death will be quick, and as painless as I can manage. Maybe I'll even be swift with your boyfriend's."

"For someone who is so confident in his victory, you sure sound desperate for my help," I point out. "I think you can manage without me." Feeling daring, I get up in _his _face, sneering for all I'm worth. "But be warned: don't count me out so quickly. I have more tricks than you have brain cells. And if you so much as dare to touch Cayden, you'll find yourself on your knees, incapable of having children, begging me to end you."

His face flushes.

Knowing I've overstepped my boundaries, I offer him a coy smile. "Toodles!" And I get to my feet and skip across the floor. As far away from him as I can get. Three-quarters of the way to the other side, Cayden's head pokes out from one of the small groups. His arm latches onto mine. I don't stop moving.

"What did tall, ugly and brainless want?" he says in a tone of voice I've never heard him use before. So dark and serious.

"An alliance with us, One, and Three," I say. "His plan is to have us take out the lower districts. Called it our 'careers.' I told him we weren't interested, and maybe insulted him once or twice."

"That's my girl." He beams. "What about One and Three?"

"So far as I know, they're in."

"Well, I don't have my heart set on being a Career," he says, hushed. We're off to the side, near a Peacekeeper. "But if you're cool with it, I would like to form an alliance. At least for in the beginning. If we don't, we'll be the only ones out of a group. There's strength in numbers."

"Who'd you have in mind?"

Directing me with his eyes, he looks to the right. Three tributes—the boy from 11 and both from 7—are heavily debating something. "The one from Eleven," Cayden informs me. "Locke. He knows tons about plants. Might keep us from starving."

I agree. "If you want Locke, then I want Farrah."

"But she blabs about everything. There'll be no secrecy."

"She could lie for us. No one will suspect a thing. Besides, I need another girl to keep you boys in line."

Cayden thinks about it; he nods his head. "You've got a deal, princess. You talk to Farrah, I'll talk to Locke. Move out!"

I ambush Farrah in the middle of her talk with District 12. Neither tribute looks too pleased I stole their potential ally. Farrah, however, appears elated by my interference; she lets out a small, "Finally!" as I propel her away.

"I owe you one," she says. "They wanted to be in an alliance, but neither could string more than a few sentences together. Makes for boring conversation when you're the only one trying. You should have grabbed Arrow as well; the poor dear looks furious you left him there."

"He can wait," I say. "Did you make an alliance with Twelve?"

"No, and as of now, I don't plan to."

"Good. Cayden and I want you to be in our alliance. Arrow can come, too, I suppose."

She adjusts her hat. "Ahhh, I see. Quite the strategist, aren't you? Who else have you asked before I blindly say yes?"

"Cayden wants the boy from Eleven."

Farrah nods. "Goodness knows that kid is going to take whatever comes his way. With a girl tribute like the one he has, he'll be desperate. This could work. Arrow and I will hunt, Locke can pick berries, and you can heal our wounds. It covers most of the bases." She shrugs. "I'm in."

"Excellent." I gaze around. "Talk to Arrow about it. Let me know what he says."

"Will do. Hey—do you want to do stations at training tomorrow?"

Training. I had nearly forgotten about training. What had Zeta said? There would be stations to choose between? Going with Farrah and the others would be wise. Whatever information I could glean off them might mean the difference between life and death.

"Alright. I need to tell Cayden. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Don't forget," she calls over my shoulder as I walk away, "I still want to hear the rest of that story!"

Cayden finishes up with Locke just as I am striding past. As before, we tuck as far away from the others as we can. He tells me Locke is a go. I tell him Farrah is with us. We both breathe deep sighs.

"No one can say we didn't try," Cayden says, rubbing my back.

No, they can't. I just hope that it's enough.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm back! So sorry for the wait! I hope this story meets your expectations! Leave me a review with your thoughts :)


	7. Chapter VII

**Chapter VII**

* * *

I wake the next morning to the gentle rise and fall of a chest. Warm breath tickles the back of my neck. A rhythmic beating sounds beneath my ear.

I crack open an eye. Wince. Everywhere there is light, painful and unforgiving. Groaning, I close it again and hide my face down in the chest, where it is dark, warm, wonderful. An after-image flashes across my eyelids, burning back into the recesses of my mind. I wait for it to pass.

The next time I attempt vision, I move slower. Elevate my head. Count to ten. Face toward the body beneath me. Count to ten. Open my eyes a sliver. Count to ten. Widen them. Count to ten. Then, finally, the light takes form.

My eyes travel from the naked chest, up, up, up, until they land on Cayden's face, drinking in his closed eyes, ajar mouth, head slumped back against the wall. For a moment I forget my confusion and just stare at him, amazed at how peaceful he looks. Not a care in the world. One arm slung across the small of my back, the other sprawled out to the right. Deep, even inhales and exhales.

I could live a thousand years and never forget this sight.

Pulling my focus from him, I take in our surroundings. We're on the couch in the living quarters, just down the hall from both our rooms. Someone—_an Avox, probably_, I think—has thrown back the curtains, allowing the window opposite us to strike with blinding morning rays. A maroon-colored blanket gnarls in a tangled heap beneath us. We're alone.

Cayden mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and I feel his hand tug me closer.

I carefully maneuver off of him, limbs shaking in agony. Lay his arm out on a cushion instead of me. Get to my feet and look at the clock hanging above the couch. 8:57, it reads. Training starts at ten.

Training. Before meeting Zeta I'd never trained for anything in my life. School doesn't count—it's school. Becoming a doctor isn't an accomplishment; it's a way of life. And running… Cayden used to guilt trip me about joining our school's track team. District 2 is so large, four high schools are needed to accommodate the number of children. He thought I could beat them all. But no, I had told him. Running is for me, only me. Not for sport.

Just me.

Today's training won't be for me. Not in the same sense. Here, it'll be to stay alive. A more noble and, in some cases, more important battle than for my mental well-being. Wes said to stay low. That I would be home before it got this far. But it's been a couple of days. Nothing's changed. So train I will.

I feel a pang in my heart. Wes. It feels like a lifetime since I last saw him, last spoke to him, though it's only been a couple of days. I wonder how he is faring. How my father is faring. They have no one else to fill the long awkward silences that stretch out at the dinner table. No one to blast music in her room when the quiet becomes too much, or to come home sopping wet after a long run. No one to demand Wes gets out of the house, away from his drawings. What will happen to them, to Wes especially, if I don't come back?

"What're you thinking about?"

Cayden has woken up without my noticing. He stares at me, green eyes alive with curiosity. I have to remind myself to stare at them and not his chest. My cheeks heat. As if I haven't seen him half-naked before. It comes with the territory of having a male best friend.

"You had this nauseated look across your face," he goes on. "Something wrong? You know, apart from the obvious?"

Clearing my throat as quietly as I can, I say, "Just wondering how training is going to go." For some reason I cross my arms. Almost self-consciously. "Hopefully I won't have to wear heels, because I doubt I can walk in them after yesterday."

"For my own safety," he laughs, "I'll demand Selma tell Ryker not to give you any. Don't need you turning wrong while attempting some crazy move and skewering me. I'd prefer not to be a Cayden-kabob."

I stick my tongue out at him, which feels suddenly dry. "When did I crash?" I ask as he returns the motion.

Last night, following the dinner with the other tributes, Zeta had collected us with the notion to work us to the bone. Laps up and down our hallway were quickly followed by knife-throwing lessons (weapons courtesy of a bribed Avox) and then an obstacle course comprised of overturned furniture from both our rooms. Pushups, pull-ups, core, wall sits. Just as my battered body had finally demanded for rest, giving out completely, we'd been forced to the TV to watch a replay of the opening ceremonies. Like we hadn't lived through them, or something.

"During District 7."

"Sorry about that," I say, meaning my falling asleep on him.

"Anytime, darling," and his lips curl up at one corner.

To hide my returning blush, I downcast my face and fiddle with my hair, combing through the tangles. The bun must have come out during the night.

"Ah, good, good," enters Zeta's voice from the hallway. She emerges through the door, Effin two seconds behind her. "You're awake." She, too, glances at the clock. Tuts. "I would suggest you both get moving. Clean up. Get dressed. I want you in the dining hall no later than 9:45 so you have time to eat and we can discuss strategy." When she realizes neither of us is moving, she claps her hands. The long blue sleeves she wears, trailing to the ground, sway. "Now! Go, go! Shower! Preferably a cold one for Cayden. _Move!_"

More to avoid his eyes after her remark than please Zeta, I flee from the room without a second glance, down the hall to my chamber, where a servant (not my mother) is laying clothes on my bed. No Ryker and his insane fashion choices for me today. The Avox is sickly thin with wispy, gray hair and aged skin. Seeing him unnerves me—so Nath went through with replacing her—and I scramble into the bathroom before my anger can rear its ugly head.

Anger turns to frustration inside. Tears blend in with shower water as I lather myself clean. I'm livid, and tired, and sore, and embarrassed, and so, so confused. My mother gone again. The Games another day closer with no indication of being cancelled. Shoulders heavy from physical strain and psychological exhaustion. And that funny feeling in my gut that swirls up whenever I think of or look at Cayden…

When I'm finished crying and washing, I dress myself. The outfit the Avox left is comprised of gray shorts with a single stripe down either leg, and a deep green tank top with a built-in bra. Athletic shoes are on the floor.

By the time I'm clothed, have pinned up my hair in another bun, and entered the dining hall, the clock reads 9:45. Right on time. I'm the last one in, so I take the remaining available seat next to Zeta and load up my plate with food. Still on Zeta's health kick, my meal is mostly fruit and meat, but I'm not complaining. Not today. We eat in silence, and when we're done, Zeta dives into strategy talk.

"It works like this: You have three days. Three days to train, three days to master your skills, three days to impress the Gamemakers. At the end of the third day, you will perform in front of them. In the time allotted to you, you must show them your greatest talent; the one that will keep you alive in the arena. They will then score you on a scale of 1-12. The higher the score, the better you did. These scores will be presented to Panem. _Only_the scores. Fellow tributes and potential sponsors, as well as every person in the Districts will judge you based on what you get.

"I want you to follow a very specific order in training. There will be various stations. Day one I want you focusing on survival. Make fires, shelter, and hunting gear. Learn the plants, what's edible and what's not. Tie knots, be able to camouflage yourself, practice climbing. Anything that will keep you alive that doesn't require tribute interaction.

"The second day I want devoted to weapons. Neither of you can shoot arrows or wield spears. From that knife throwing bit we had last night, I know you both are lousy with small objects. Cayden can handle javelins, but that's not enough. Any all weapons you can get your hands on, do so.

"Finally, on the third day, review. Go over everything you've learned. You'll only have a few hours, so move quickly. The second half of the day you'll be performing in front of the Gamemakers. Calliope, I want you to run for them. Create barriers if you must, for realism sake. Just use those legs. Show them how agile you are. Cayden, throw javelins. If you're as good as Cali says you are you'll be fine.

"Finally, the other tributes. You can create alliances. I don't care. That's up to you. But until and after you get in the arena, don't you dare show any of them your healing techniques. They know you're from the medicine district, but the last thing you need is them being able to take care of the injuries you or anybody else gives them. Better they not know. At the same time, I want you to glean what you can off them. While you're tying ropes, or taking turns to shoot arrows, watch the others. See what they're good at and find their weaknesses. You will benefit from doing so later on."

"What happens after the third day?" I ask.

"Interviews, and then the Games," Effin answers me.

"Don't worry about that," Zeta snaps. "That's a long way off. Keep your attention on the tasks at hand."

We nod, but only because what else can we do? At least we have a plan. Sort of.

By now it's five 'til. Zeta stands and walks to the door. We follow her, down the hallway and to the elevator. Neither she nor Effin hug us or speak words of comfort. Just stare until Effin says, "Remember what you've been told." Then we enter the elevator, press the button that will take us down, down as far as we can go, and watch as the elevator doors remove them from our sight. The actual training facilities are below ground and the see-through walls become shrouded in darkness. Light from the two bulbs overhead throw shadows over Cayden's face.

"Ready for this?" he asks, holding his arms open.

Before I go into them, I notice he's wearing a similar outfit to mine, only with a muscle shirt and longer shorts. Then I'm embracing him, taking the reassurance he's offering me, praying it will stay with me through the next several days. "As I'll ever be," I reply.

A _ding_explodes in the silence that follows. A red light shines above, signaling our floor. I take a deep breath. Detach myself from Cayden. And the doors open.

A cave. That is my first impression of the training room. Long walls rise so high, I have to crane my neck to see where they meet the ceiling, which is plastered with sterile tiles. I can't even begin to imagine how far underground we are. Obviously there are no windows. Just a raised platform bound by railing that winds the room all 360 degrees around, overlooking the group of teens standing in the center of the space. On that raised platform are men and women in purple robes. Their eyes go to us as we exit the elevator.

When I'm fully in the humongous cavern, and the elevator has chirped again, signaling its departure, my eyes find the stations Zeta told us about. They are arranged in a circle along the outer wall, surrounding the tributes. Each has its own equipment: potted plants that are artistically set on a long table; battle armor erected so it looks as though a body inhabits it; and everywhere shelves and boards boasting all manner of spiky, sharp, and gleaming metallic weapons.

As we approach our fellow competitors, Farrah pushes her way through them to meet us. She's in capris and a T-shirt, both white. "Finally!" she says, and she hugs me. Which is weird, because we've only known each other for a day. But I guess when your days are numbered, an evening can feel like a lifetimes in terms of friendship.

"Hey," says Cayden, looking pleased when she hugs him as well.

"It's about time!" she rattles off, letting him go and taking both my hands in hers. "Come on," and she's leading me to the group, chatting as we walk. "Girl, you should wear shorts more often. Just look at those legs. I see what you meant by 'I run all the time.' Damn."

I laugh awkwardly and look to Cayden, uncertain how to otherwise react, but he's steadily avoiding my eyes, biting his lip.

We land in the center of the tribute; Farrah takes the last few minutes before we start to introduce me to Locke, the boy from District 11, who I can only describe as shy, before a clock strikes ten somewhere. _Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong_on and on. When the chimes fade away, echo and all, a woman who's just joined the group gets our attention.

"Welcome, tributes. I am Magnolia." She's incredibly tall and wiry. The boys around me shift when they take in her defined abs. She doesn't show any hints she noticed, though, and says, "Today is day one of training. Around us are stations. Each specializes in a skill that may help you in the arena. Over the next three days you may choose which, of any, of the stations to visit. Experts are on hand to teach you their particular subject, so don't be afraid to ask questions. At any of the combat stations, you will be required to practice with an assistant. You are forbidden from engaging in physical activities with each other that may result in injuries."

On that happy note, she has the assistants pin papers with our District numbers on our backs and sends us off. Most Districts stick together; I watch as Seven goes off to try archery and Ten heads to the fire making station. Keenan of Four immediately jumps onto the wrestling mat, little Rayna fidgeting as she debates whether or not to follow him.

"Edible plants?" Cayden guesses.

"Edible plants," I agree.

And so the day truly begins. Over the next nine hours, we travel from station to station, attempting things we've never given a second thought to before. I gain a new appreciation for everyday comforts: the warmth of a fire, the security of a next meal, the luxury of a solid roof over my head. It becomes horribly clear just how much Cayden and I have taken for granted, how Two has provided for us. The realization makes me feel dirty. Guilty.

"No," the woman in charge of the knot tying station tells me, "like this." And she shows me for a third time how to correctly coil the rope.

I quickly learn where my strengths lie. Climbing is almost second nature; my legs propel me up the wall before Cayden is done getting harnessed. I reach the top in a matter of seconds, ignoring the shake in my arms, and look out over the other tributes. No matter what happens, between running and climbing I will be safe should I need to escape an opponent. Tasks that require limber fingers also come easily. I can make fires and set the snares Cayden creates. Boning a fish happens without my realization. The small amount of strength in my arms is made up for in the speed my hands can move.

Where I fail is in the tiny details. Instructor after instructor becomes frustrated with me, telling me I have no eye for simple, much less complicated, patterns. I have no instinctual knowledge, no understanding of tiny intricacies; they evade me, and as the day wears on I become increasingly frustrated. I can't tie knots, I can't correctly identify plants, I can't camouflage myself, I can't construct snares. Building a shelter will be Cayden's job in the arena, as I can hardly lift the material, can't recognize which would be best to assemble with. When I think about it later, it should have come as no surprise. Wes has always been more proficient than I at capturing the small things. One look at his drawings proves this.

Cayden struggles as well. His eye is better than mine, but only just. It is by some miracle he manages to pass the edible plants test, to put together the snares. Being stronger than me, he does do well with the shelter, but struggles with climbing the wall. Even with me encouraging him, it takes him forty minutes to claw his way up to where I'm lodged. His fire making skills are, according to the male expert, adequate.

Farrah and Locke stay with us the whole day, but Arrow ducks out mid-morning, heading for where Eight is stringing arrows. True to her word, Farrah spends the first half of the day quizzing me about how my mother was taken. I tell her everything, only pausing occasionally when I feel anger or tears bite at me. When this happens, Cayden usually asks Locke a question, allowing me to collect myself before continuing on.

"No!" she says when I reach the part about being thrown against the stairs. "Those brutes! How they could do such a thing…and you were younger then, too."

When I make it through the entire story, she's silent for a long while. It's almost frightening, actually. How quiet it is. No more questions, no more badgering, no more coaxing words from my lips. We are just getting up to go to another station when she finally speaks again, apologizing. And that's it. She never again brings it up.

Locke, I decide when he smiles at me following my groan of frustration at the camouflage station, is alright. Very subdued and private, but alright. It's almost laughable how different Tibbs is from him, what with them being from the same District. At one point I catch him watching her—she's in the opposite corner, throwing axes in a thick, see-through container that's been erected to keep her from hurting the rest of us—and see his eyes flare in alarm and frustration.

Lunch is provided in a cafeteria on the ground level; all the Districts are there, but they mostly keep to themselves. Even Farrah and Arrow leave us. Only Locke remains, and I can't blame him because I wouldn't want to sit with his District partner either.

"No soup?" he asks, seeing the food Cayden and I take.

"No," I say and explain Zeta's list of restricted foods.

"You would think she'd want you to bulk up before going in. I can't imagine there'll be much to eat in the arena."

He's probably right. I sincerely doubt the Gamemakers will be having a feast every other day. Not with a title like the Hunger Games blazoned across the competition. But the thing is, as I chew slowly, thinking on Locke's words, maybe Zeta's plan isn't so insane. I feel healthy and strong. Like my body has been washing out all impurities over the last few days. Maybe, just maybe, she's onto something.

The rest of the day is spent at the few survival stations we have left, and then Magnolia is calling for us to stop what we're doing. Back up on floor two, Zeta and Effin grill us about training and the other Districts. For two solid hours we are flattened by questions, only to receive as our reward more sprints up and down the hallway. Bedtime rolls around much too late, and I'm asleep at once.

The next day is worse. Weapons, apparently, require some sort of hand-eye coordination to be used successfully. Hand-eye coordination I don't have.

"Ahhh!" Cayden says as my dagger goes shooting by, missing the top of his ear by a fraction of an inch. Clutching his head where it has stripped off a bit of his hair, he lets loose a stream of four-letter words. Beside him, Farrah, Arrow, and Locke cling to each other to keep from laughing.

I have to sit down with my hands over the back of my head, Peacekeepers surrounding me, their guns pointed at my body, while the medics check to make sure I didn't actually harm him. If I did, they'll remove me from the gym, and I'll not be allowed to train. I'm guessing they also will perform some type of backlash to keep me in line in the future.

After what feels like forever the medic says he's fine.

"Next time," Cayden says, pulling me to my feet as the Peacekeepers march away, "let me know when you're going to throw, ok? I need time to dive out of the way."

I agree, and good thing, too, because every further attempt I make at throwing spears, maces, javelins, is so wildly off its mark I'm sure I would have hit him. The only weapon I come even close to hitting a bulls-eye with is the knife, and it barely sticks to the target as it is. But I refuse to give up. I spend the entire afternoon at the knife-throwing station, determined to get it right. I get better, but not fast enough. At the end of the day, I'm still missing a good quarter of my pitches. The worst part? The Gamemakers have seen everything. They know how terrible I am. I can only hope it won't seriously influence the score they give me.

The one upside of the day occurs at the wrestling mat. The man there teaches me several moves I can actually accomplish, moves that utilize my flexible legs rather than arms. A headlock where I twist my calves, knees, ankles around my foe's neck and push up. When I practice with a cloth dummy, the head goes sailing off. A twist that will send any rival plummeting to the ground, face-first. Giving me the necessary time to disarm them and deliver the final strike. I feel like a pretzel at the end of the lesson, but somehow more confident that I won't be totally powerless in a physical altercation.

Walking away from the mat, I nearly jump out of my skin when a voice, not Cayden's, whispers in my ear, "Dead." I whip around and my eyes find Keenan's retreating back, strides purposeful.

The third day comes all too soon. As I review what I've learned, mostly sticking to the things I am decent at for the sake of last-minute revisions, weight crushes my shoulders. Only a few hours until I see the Gamemakers. Only a few hours until I'm stuck with the few skills I've reaped. Only a few hours until another sunrise and sunset gone. Another day closer to the Games.

We're not given lunch. Instead, at noon, Magnolia rounds us up and deposits us in a white room with great sloping walls, a few tables and twenty-four chairs. Private sessions with the Gamemakers are to go in District order, boys first. Cayden leaves, sending a smile my way and I must endure the wait alone. Everyone avoids each other's eyes. Maybeck coughs. The boy on my right from District 3 raps his knuckles on the table and I'm sure my head is going to explode. _Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap._

Fifteen long, arduous minutes go by; I leap from my chair when Magnolia comes for me, eager to be free of the room. Eyes follow me as I leave. I nod at Farrah, Arrow, and Locke. I take a deep breath. Feel my shoulders loosen. I can do this, I can do this.

I'm led back into the training room. Magnolia shuts the door after me. Calling up the reserve of reassurance Cayden gave me on the first day, I keep my head tall and walk to the center of the room. In front of me are tables similar to those in the holding room, only these are occupied by the Gamemakers and large piles of food. Their eyes follow me as I take my place before them. A man sitting at the middle table stands. Introduces himself as the Head Gamemaker, Geoffrey Kinper. Informs me I may begin.

An obstacle course. Zeta wanted me to build an obstacle course. I look around. The stations have all been left up, but squished off to the side. I find what's left of the shelter-making station and hasten to it. I must dig around in the materials to find what I'm looking for. Behind me, I hear soft murmuring.

I wonder if I have a time limit and force myself to hurry.

Finding what I've been looking for, I pull free the fake logs and wooden boards. Without ceremony I toss them over my shoulder, knowing for the few seconds my arms protest, I will get the randomness I am looking for. _Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash._The falling objects become almost melodic, taking on a kind of syncopated beat. When there is nothing left to throw, I turn around and take in the mess I've made.

Everywhere, items are strewn, littering the floor. Some have piled on top of each other, some have broken on impact. There's no rhyme or reason to the way they are situated. Hopefully that will help make what I'm about to do seem more realistic.

I walk to the end of the tables and double over, balancing on my toes, fingertips to the floor. My bun flops forward. I inhale. Bounce a little. Mentally, I count down. _3…2…1!_ When I hit the final number, there is only a squeak from my shoes and then I'm running. Running like I'm being chased. Running like Peacekeepers are on me. Trying to go to that place, the one that's safe. I refuse to stop. Feel my feet hitting the ground. _Tap, tap tap._ Skid to the right. Hop the log. Teeter my way across the boards, as though hot lava will burn me if I fall. _Boom._Rebound off the wall and flip—a flip I didn't even know I could do.

If I do have a time limit, no one mentions it. But that's ok, because I have my own timer going off in my head. Not fast enough. Be faster. Why am I not faster? Why won't my legs move? Move, move! Twist and set off in the other direction. Come on, Cali. Breathe even.

I go into another world. One where I don't have to think, where my body moves exclusively of conscious thought. I am reaction. Only reaction. No thinking, no considering, nothing. Just movement. Just me, the obstacles in my path, and the drive to be quicker. To run and run and run and run and get away. Find somewhere I'll be protected.

My heart flies.

I can't say what makes me do it. Out of nowhere I'm falling to the side, some impulse, some instinctual impulse driving me to the table again. I don't see their faces before it happens. Their voices don't reach my ears as I jump as high as I can, land on the table and let my feet slide. Yes! _Whoosh!_Dishes of food go this way and that as I skate my down the tables, much of it falling in their laps. I'm moving and moving and moving, gliding, flying. Color zooms by. And then the end is upon me. Tucking in like the wrestling instructor taught me, I fling myself off at the last second, do a roll, raking my shoulders against the ground, and come up, balancing on my feet and the tips of my fingers like before.

I did it. I did it.

I become aware of my breathing in the hush that comes after.

The natural high collapses at once when I think about what I've just done. Stupid. So stupid. Why did I do that? They will probably see it as an attack. As a show of power, momentary power I had over them. Cautiously, I stand.

They are aghast. Angry faces shame me, open mouths form words that don't come. Many are wiping the food from their robes, others just looking at me in shock. Like a guilty child about to be scolded, I prepare myself for whatever punishment they are about to unleash. It won't be kind.

It doesn't come.

Geoffrey Kinper clears his throat, one hand swiping potatoes from his sleeve. "Thank you, Miss Westover," he says in an almost cheerful tone. With his free hand he points to the door I came through. "You may go now."

I can't run for the door fast enough.

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**A/N: **Reviews are love! :)


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